


Confrontation

by sherlockian4evr



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: - discussed, Angst, Bombs, Canon-Typical Violence, Divorce, Drugs, Edited - Tweaked a few scenes and made corrections, Eventual Hopeful Ending, F/M, Kidnapping, M/M, No Actual Non-Con Sex, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-con touching, OMC - Freeform, Pining Sherlock, Post TAB, Rating Changed, Recent Suicide Attempt, Sherlock special spoilers, Threats of Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-05-11 11:00:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 28
Words: 23,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5624569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockian4evr/pseuds/sherlockian4evr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since the special, this scene has been playing in my head as I try to imagine John's reaction to the OD, so I'm working it out here.</p><p>...and then the scene grew into a full blown fic...</p><p>Beta read by <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlock1110/pseuds/Sherlock1110">Sherlock1110</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's tagged, but here's your trigger warning for drugs and a recent suicide attempt.

Sherlock strode across the living room stopping by the mantle. He reached out a hand and placed it atop the skull, stroking it absently. Looking up, Sherlock caught sight of John who was stood, his hands fisted at his sides and his face a mask. “Do go ahead with your rant, John. Tell me how I’m an idiot for endangering my life and my health. Tell me how I’m and addict. Do, please, get it out of your system so we can proceed to more important matters.”

John locked eyes with the detective in the mirror and gave a sharp shake of the head. “What would be the point? You already know all of that anyway, yeah? And nothing I say will make a difference.” He took a step forward, bringing his hand up and jabbing one finger in Sherlock’s direction. “You were high when you first stepped onto the tarmac. I see that now. I’m a doctor, I should have seen it then. The thing is,  _Mycroft_  surely saw it. So, tell me this Sherlock…” John’s voice rose in a shout. “Why didn’t he ask for the bloody list then?!”

“I told you, he gave me six months.” It was said quietly, barely more than a murmur. Sherlock shuddered. He could feel John’s gaze on him, could almost hear the wheels turning inside the doctor’s head.

John turned and walked away from the mantle, stopping by the desk. His fists tightened, released, tightened again, then he swept his arm across the desktop, knocking everything he hit onto the floor. “That bastard! You were never meant to come back.”

“And the penny drops.”

“He asked me to take care of you,” John said quietly, “on the plane.” With a shake of his head, the doctor laughed bitterly. “The next time I see him… Christ.”

Sherlock’s hand dropped from the skull as he turned, wearily, back to face John. “It’s not his fault.”

“You’re defending your brother?”

The detective heaved a heavy sigh. “What would you have had him do, John? He’s not the only influential person in the government. They would have had me put in prison. Imagine that, if you will. Where would they have put me? With the other  _murderers_. Impossible. The embezzlers, the rapists? I would have ended up in solitary for the rest of my life. I would have gone mad. He convinced them to send me on that mission. He was only able to do it because they were convinced I would die. At least that way, there was a chance. At least that’s how Mycroft saw it.”

“A chance?” John wheeled around. “You said he only gave you six months.”

Sherlock shrugged. “He thought he would be able to find a way to bring me back before then or to extract me and hide me away somewhere, give me a new life.”

“So I ask, again…” The doctor could barely control himself. “Why didn’t he ask for the list? He had to know, had to see what you had done. And it was an OD. Don’t tell me that was an accident.”

“It wasn’t,” Sherlock admitted, closing his eyes. “I’ve already lost two years of my life living in hell. I couldn’t face six more months of it.”

“But Mycroft would have got you out!” John was shouting again.

Sherlock shouted back, “But why! What would be the point?!”

Silence fell over the flat, heavy and complete. Finally, John broke it, his voice measured calm, “What would be the point?” He strode over and stood mere inches from the detective. “You would have. Been. Safe!” His voice dropped, “What were you thinking?”

With a bitter laugh, Sherlock turned away. He glanced briefly into the mirror to see Mary standing there. When had she come up? Their eyes met in understanding.

“It’s my fault, John. He thought he had lost you,” Mary supplied as she walked forward. She had her hands held out to here sides, displaying her empty hands. “See, Sherlock. No gun.”

The detective gave her a small, sad smile. “No, no gun.”

John strode towards his wife, turned and walked back towards Sherlock, hesitated and dropped into his chair. He carded his fingers through his hair. “I don’t understand.”

Mary met the detective’s eyes in a challenge. “Tell him, Sherlock, or I will.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you hear something crack, it is probably my heart breaking.

"No." Sherlock spoke the word quietly, but with steel in his tone.

John started to stand, but Mary held her hand out in his direction and gave a small shake of her head. "Tell him, Sherlock," she said, her tone easily a match for the detective's.

"What would you have me say?" Sherlock's lip had curled into an ugly snarl. "That I've lied to everyone around me for years, pretending to be the good boy, the recovering addict? That half the time I slipped off into my Mind Palace I was actually high." His face twisted. "It was a convenient diversion, one that no one ever questioned. Perhaps I should say that I'm a self-centred prick? That I don't give a damn about any of you!" His voice was so loud that surely he had been heard a block away.

John sprang to his feet, shaking with fury. He would have left right then, but Mary grasped him by the arm and urged, "Wait." She addressed the detective, "You and I both know that's not what I meant."

Sherlock whirled, grasping the mantle to steady himself, his knuckles going white. "No."

"Yes!" Mary countered.

At that moment, Sherlock's leg gave way and he started to fall, but John was there to catch him. The detective lurched from John's grasp as if his touch were fire burning him and wobbled over to fall into his chair. He sat there staring at his shaking hands.

"I went away for two years," Sherlock began. He gave a shudder and let his eyes fall shut. "Two years of hiding and thinking, analysing patterns and identifying the cells in Moriarty's network. Figuring out how to infiltrate them and tear them apart from the inside. It was lonely. I only wanted to come home. Each time I was captured, I could have given up. I almost did, at the last. Even I can only endure so much." He went silent, remembering, then gave a hiss and opened his eyes. His lips curled into a bitter smile. "But I couldn't give up. I had to come home. Come back to you. But you had Mary." He paused, swallowed. "I wanted to hate her." His eyes turned in her direction. "I tried to hate you. I really did. Then you shot me and I had my reason, finally, a license to hate, and still I couldn't, because I understood. Then everything happened so fast. I was kept in solitary for a week, broken only by the routine of meals and the whispered mocking of the guards. Then came my brother's visit. When he brought his plan to me, I agreed to it, it was my only way out, but I knew he was wrong, I wouldn't be coming back. There was nothing left for me to fight for. It was a simple matter to acquire the drugs after that. A deduction here, a threat there. The guards knew my connections and they knew I could follow through on my threats. So, there you have it. Now kindly leave me in peace. I find myself in need of another hit."

John stared straight ahead at nothing, his hands curled into fists. He opened his mouth several times in abortive attempts at speech. Finally, he took a step closer to Sherlock and looked down at him. "Say it."

The detective looked away in silent refusal to speak.

"No, you don't get to do this." John's voice quavered under the onslaught of so many emotions. "You don't get to dance around this, whatever _this_ is. Say it!"

Already weak and exhausted from the day's events, Sherlock surrendered. "I... love you." He looked at Mary. "Satisfied? I've driven home the last nail in the coffin."

"Oh, Sherlock." She smiled sadly. “It was never about that."

John gave himself a shake, then walked across the room towards the door to the stair well.

"John, where are you going?" Mary's voice was full of concern.

"Out," came the short reply. "I need to go for a walk."

"But..."

Without turning around, he said "Mary, don't. I have to think and I can't do it here. I'll be back. I promise you."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should really be working...

Mary sat up straighter when she heard John's footfalls on the stairs. They were heavy and weary, but filled with determination. As he entered the room, Sherlock shifted for the first time in hours. He looked anywhere but at John.

"Stand up," John ordered, his voice firm. "Now."

Sherlock glared at him, but stood. "Better, John? Go ahead and hit me now. That's what you do, isn't it? That's the greeting I received after saving your life."

John sniffed and tilted his head. He refused to be baited. "Take off your clothes. Every stitch. I want to make sure you're not hiding more drugs."

With a sneer, Sherlock removed his Belstaff and threw it in John's direction. The doctor caught it in mid-air and rummaged through the pockets, pulling out the detective's mobile, keys and a pen. He tossed the coat to Mary, dropped the mobile and keys, then snapped the pen in half, checking for a small cache of drugs. Not finding one, he dropped the remains of the pen. John turned his eyes on Mary and jabbed a finger towards the coat. "Check the liner. He may have hidden something there."  
She nodded and set to work.

The detective took a step forward, his hand outraised and an objection forming on his lips, but froze when John stepped in front of him.

"Go on, the rest of it," John ordered, "or I'll do it for you."

"You wouldn't."

The doctor shook his head. "I would and I will. I told you once, I had bad days. Well, guess what? This one tops them all."

Sherlock swallowed and the muscles in his jaw flexed, then he removed his jacket and began deliberately unbuttoning his shirt. As each item of his clothing was removed, John checked the pockets. The detective had removed his shoes, socks and shirt and was starting on his trousers when Mary sighed. The doctor turned to find her holding two small packets of white powder.

"You know what to do with them." John nodded in the direction of the loo. Mary gave a nod, and went to flush their contents.

With jerky, angry motions, Sherlock stripped off his remaining clothing. He held his arms out to his sides and turned slowly around. "Satisfied?"

Mary walked back in, not even blinking at the sight of the nude detective. "I looked around in the loo. Flushed the small stash he had hidden in his electric razor."

"Get dressed," John growled, then turned to look at his wife. She gave him a nod at his unspoken question. Once Sherlock had dressed, John grabbed the Belstaff and thrust it at him. "Put it on. You're coming home with us."

"No," Sherlock countered, his eyes going a bit wild. "I'm really not."

John's answering grin was frightening. "You _will_ walk out of this flat and you  _will_ get in the back of our car. You will _not_ touch anything between here and there, because I can't trust you not to have drugs hidden in plain sight." When the detective didn't move, John took a step in his direction.

"Fine," Sherlock snapped and proceeded them from the flat.

In the car, it was eerily silent. John gazed out the window, his left arm resting against the door. His fist was pressed to his lips as he thought. When had his life come to this? What was the precise moment? He heard an echo of Sherlock's voice, 'Afghanistan or Iraq?'

If he had a blue box and could do that day over, would he? Would he stop himself from going to Regent's park?

At a traffic light, Mary reached over and took his hand. He looked down at where they were joined, unable to muster even a sad smile.

No, he wouldn't change it. That would mean never knowing Sherlock. Maybe never meeting Mary, or not being open to her if he had. It would mean no baby girl preparing to greet the world. But now what?

John had admitted it to himself on his walk that he loved Sherlock, had done for ages, but it wasn't anything like what he felt for his wife. There was nothing sexual about it. Still, it was anything but brotherly. He had no idea what that meant and he had no idea what to do to save a man hell bent on self-destruction. All he did know was he had to try.


	4. Chapter 4

Mary was already at their front door, keys in hand, and John was close behind when he realised that Sherlock hadn't got out of the car. The doctor performed an about turn and marched back, jerking the door open. "Out." He pointed towards the house. When Sherlock didn't move, he started to reach into the car, but the detective gave a huff and climbed out. John pointedly waited for Sherlock to proceed him and followed him to the house.

Inside, Mary removed her coat. "The guest room's this way."

With a shake of his head, Sherlock protested. "I'm not tired. I won't be sleeping."

A muscle in John's jaw twitched. "You OD'd. You'll either sleep or lay there and pretend. I don't really give a damn which." He grabbed Sherlock's arm and propelled him along.

At the bedroom door, Mary was emerging. Sherlock shouldered his way past her and closed the door.

"John," Mary called as her husband marched passed, "Where are you going?"

"I'm getting a pillow and blanket. I'll sleep on the floor outside his room. He'll have to walk over me to get out."

With a sigh, Mary ran her hand through her hair. "He'll just go out a window if he wants out, Love."

The doctor stopped in mid stride and flexed his left hand. Turning around, he opened the guest room door, thankful he hadn't found time to fix the broken lock.

Sherlock was stood by the window. He resisted the urge to snap his hand back from where it was running along the window sill. "John."

Crossing his arms, John gave him a bitter smile. "You're not going out the window, so you might as well get in bed."

Sherlock stiffened. "And how will you stop me? Stand there all night."

John didn't reply, simply leaned against the wall, his intention to do precisely that made clear.

With jerky motions, the detective took off his coat. His shoes were next and it was an almost irresistible temptation to throw them. Instead, he placed them by the bed with very deliberate motions. Lifting the bedclothes, he crawled under them and turned his back to John.

Mary was hovering by the door, a look of grim amusement on her face. "You can't do it. It's been a hard day for you, too."

"I've had hard days before this. I've had my turn standing watch. Afghanistan."

Sherlock looked over his shoulder, a sneer on his face. "You were a doctor, not a guard."

"I was a soldier. I did what it took to stay alive!"

Mary placed her hand on his arm. "Just sleep in the bed. You'll know if he tries to go somewhere."

He blinked at her. "Are you sure?"

"Of course I am. You're both good men. I trust you."

Sherlock buried his head beneath the bedclothes and huffed. He was anything but a good man.

John drew her into an embrace and kissed her forehead. "Alright. Night, then."

Even hidden as he was under the covers and back turned to them, Sherlock knew what was happening. John was twisting the knife in him and it was made all the worse because he knew. He had to know what it was doing to Sherlock and he didn't even care.

Mary left the room and John sighed. He walked over to the vacant side of the bed and sat, letting his head hang. Behind him, he could feel it as Sherlock rolled violently over. "Oh, God." He covered his face with his hands. "I didn't mean... Christ, Sherlock I wasn't thinking. I'm sorry." Why hadn't he thought?! Sherlock had said he loved him and he had just blithely kissed Mary while standing in the same room as him and... Bloody fuck! What kind of torture had it been for Sherlock to be his best man? "I never meant to hurt you."

From beneath the covers came the sound of Sherlock's broken laugh. "That's what we do, hurt each other. I jumped off a building and you..."

"Got married..," John finished for him. He rubbed at his eyes. "Our lives are a comedy of errors and I don't know how to fix them."

"I don't need to be fixed," Sherlock spat.

Incredulous, John turned around to face the lump on the other side of the bed. "You intentionally OD'd and you don't need fixed. That's just brilliant! And you do see what you did? I wasn't talking about fixing you. I was saying I need to fix everything I've fucked up." His voice took on a tremor, "Even you know you're broken. You just won't admit it."

Sherlock sat up in an explosion of bedclothes, tossing them back furiously. "Just because I'm gay doesn't mean I'm broken. Just because I fell in love with you, straight John Watson, doesn't mean I'm broken. I'm just a fool that gave his non-existent heart to the only person who ever seemed to care."

When John spoke, it was with carefully contained fury. "What I said has nothing to do with you being gay. It's about you and your stupid, idiotic ideas. You really thought that OD'ing was a viable solution. Talking never occurred to you. Telling me how you felt never occurred to you. Asking for help never occurred to you."

"And what would it have changed? You would have still been married. Still been straight. A few more weeks and you will be a father. You can't tell me that won't be the end. You'll drift away and be nothing more than a memory, a name signed on an annual Christmas card."

"You are a fool, Sherlock Holmes." John shook his head, trying to find the words to explain. "I would never, will never let that happen. I can't give you everything that you want, I know that, but I do love you. I'm not sure what that means." He laughed, but it came out brittle. "Please, can you just give me time to figure it out? Don't... If you die again. I won't survive that."

"And Mary?"

John choked on a sob. "I don't... Christ."

Slowly, as if afraid of rejection, Sherlock reached out and took John's hand. They sat there quietly for several long minutes. Finally, they both lay down, each lost in his own thoughts, trying to find a path to navigate the future.


	5. Chapter 5

John had slept fitfully, tossing and turning, afraid Sherlock would try to leave and he wouldn't notice. There had been little snippets of nightmare the few times he had slept - Sherlock dead on the pathway at Barts, Sherlock high and alone in a doss house, Sherlock dead of an OD on the airplane. He rolled over, his hand coming up to shield his eyes from the morning sun that was streaming through the window. John's body ached from the steady tension he had been under. Feeling eyes on him, he blinked. Sherlock was awake and staring at him.

The detective cleared his throat, trying to find his voice. There were things he needed to do, but first he had something to say. "When I came back, before I knew about Mary, I was going to ask Mycroft for help." He peered intently into John's eyes "I was going to quit. Really get clean." He swallowed, unsure of himself and terribly afraid. "If you'll help me, I want to try." For several long moments, John just stared at him, his face devoid of expression. Sherlock, unable to take the silence anymore, started to roll away. "That's fine, I'll..."

"Is that supposed to be a bribe? Maybe a threat? 'Help me, John, or I'll keep using and when I finally kill myself, it'll be your fault.' Because that's complete shit." John had sat up and was glaring at the detective. "You've manipulated me from the day we met, haven't you? Guess what? It ends _now_."

Sherlock was stunned, but realised he shouldn't have been. He _had_ manipulated John. He manipulated everyone. It was a habit, fully ingrained by now. He gave himself a mental shake. It was time to stop. He sat up, placing his feet on the floor, back to John. "You're right." Sherlock bit his lower lip, his brow furrowing. "But I still want to try. You don't have to be involved, I'll call Mycroft. I don't know how I'll do it, with Moriarty hanging over us..." His voice trailed off and he appeared to be looking far away, lost in thought.

John, cursing himself for a thrice damned fool, leaned across the bed and placed a hand gently on Sherlock's shoulder. Maybe Sherlock was still being a manipulative bastard, that's what addicts did, but what if he wasn't? He couldn't risk throwing this chance away. "In that case, I'll help."

Turning his head to look over his shoulder, Sherlock blinked hateful tears from his eyes. He let out a shuddering breath, then everything he had been feeling since before the fall crashed down on him, hard and cruel, without mercy. His body was racked with sobs as he slid from the bed onto the floor. The world could have come to an end at that moment and he wouldn't have noticed.

John scramble across the bed and onto the floor, taking the detective in his arms and started rocking him. He murmured nonsense words and reassurances as he stroked Sherlock's hair. God, this was real. "Ok, Sherlock. We'll do this, one day at a time." There were so many things left unsettled, but he couldn't afford to think of that. He had to think of Sherlock. "Christ, if that's too much, we'll take it minute by minute."

The door cracked open and Mary stuck her head into the room. She took one look at them, John holding the still sobbing detective and gave a little nod. Her heart was stuck in her throat and she felt slightly nauseous. She didn't want to lose John, but could see him slipping away. There was little she could do. Once, she had made the wrong choice - shooting Sherlock. Now, she realised that to kill him was tantamount to killing John. Mary knew she wasn't a good person, not like her husband was, but she did love him. If that ultimately meant letting him go, then so be it. Placing a hand on her distended belly, she slipped quietly from the room.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll get back to Mary, John and Sherlock next chapter, but I had to spread the angst around.

Greg punched the buzzer at 221 then shoved his hands into his pockets. Had he been asked, he would have told you this was the last place he had expected to be this morning. The last week had been bad, bad in a gut-wrenching manner. When he had heard, unofficially, what Sherlock had done, he'd left work and stayed drunk for the better part of a day. He had been furious. It felt like a betrayal - Sherlock had been getting better, growing as a person, making strides towards becoming a good man - and there was no one he could talk to about it since, officially, it hadn't even happened and John wasn't returning his calls.

Mrs. Hudson opened the door, looking tired and drawn. She didn't know what had happened, only that she was losing her surrogate son once more. "Oh, DI Lestrade." Dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, she tried to collect herself. "He's not here, but I suppose you already know that. Of course you do. I just..." Her hands twisted together, crumpling the handkerchief.

Impulsively, Greg wrapped his arms around the elderly woman in a comforting hug. "We've got him back, Mrs. Hudson and it's Greg to you. I've told you that a thousand times."

"Martha, then," she corrected. "He's back?" Her voice was hopeful. "Truly, dear?"

"Surprised you didn't know, actually. I heard he and John had quite the row yesterday."

Mrs. Hudson turned, taking a short step towards the stairs. "I was out. Are you sure he's here? It's been so quiet."

"Oh! Sorry, Mrs... Martha. John and Mary made him go home with them." He hated saying it, but Mrs. Hudson knew Sherlock's history. "Apparently he's been using and they didn't want to leave him here until the flat had been searched." It hurt seeing the elderly woman's face fall in disappointment. He understood how she felt.

She brought her hand to her mouth. "Oh, dear. It was the wedding, wasn't it? John should never have married Mary, not that she's not a delightful girl."

Sighing, Lestrade shook his head. John's marriage was something he steadfastly refused to talk about with anyone, but he understood Mrs. Hudson's sentiment. "From what I've been told, he never really stopped." He ran a hand through his hair. "So, here I am, in an unofficial capacity, to search the flat and get some things for Sherlock."

Mrs. Hudson smiled sadly and patted his cheek. "Let me know if you need anything, dear."

"Sure thing, Mrs... Martha." Greg started up the stairs, reviewing his mental list of places to search. He decided to start with the obvious, not that Sherlock had likely been obvious, and check the loo.

He checked inside the cylinder that the toilet paper fit on, under the toilet bowl tank and under the main toilet tank. He even checked behind the wall plates on the light switch and electrical outlet as well as in the light fixture and air vent.

Not finding anything, he moved to the bedroom. There was nothing in the pillows, so he tore the bed apart and looked in the box springs. There, hidden in the centre, he found a box. Opening it, he found what was obviously Sherlock's kit. Greg's heart skipped a beat. He had secretly been hoping that John was wrong, though he had known it to be unlikely. He threw the hateful kit across the room and stood there for a moment, fuming.

When he had calmed down and resumed his search, he was even more thorough. It wasn't until he checked the cans of orange soda, that he found drugs. The cans were designed with a secret compartment and actually contained soda. Greg would personally like to punch the store owners that blithely sold such things under the guise of 'novelty items' - they were anything but. He also found another small stash hidden in the desk, in the inch of space to the left side of the drawer.

Greg sat in John's old chair, the drugs and kit on the floor before him. He had rarely felt so exhausted. He'd give himself a moment, then gather some of Sherlock's clothes and such to take to John's later. After that, he'd search the flat again. And again. He'd search it until he'd found every damn scrap of drugs the idiotic genius had hidden.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock, once he had cried himself out, had allowed John to talk him into bathing. He was stood under the running water, letting it wash away the stink of stale sweat from his body and the humiliating trails of tears from his face.

When the hated Irish brogue rang out in the small space, Sherlock reached out and braced himself against the tiled wall. "I don't need you anymore, Moriarty. Go away."

"Oh, dear, dear, dear," Moriarty tutted. "You're WRONG! You'll always need me. I'm crawling around under your skin, inside of your veins."

Sherlock shot a glare in Moriarty's direction. The shade was staring at him in open appreciation. 

"He doesn't see you the way I do, you know, your John. He doesn't want you the way I do either." Moriarty raised his hand, twirling his finger in the air. "Come on, then, give us a look."

Sherlock's scream of outage echoed around the small room, bringing John crashing into the loo mere moments later.

"Jesus! Sherlock, are you alright?" The doctor's heart was racing as he tracked Sherlock's gaze.

"You're nothing!" Sherlock shouted at the spectre. "A construct of my mind, a mere tool!" His hands were flying as he gesticulated wildly.

"Sherlock," John approached carefully. "You're hallucinating."

The detective's head whipped over to look at the doctor. "You're you."

Eyebrows raised, John affirmed, "Yeess."

"Oh, bravo," Moriarty clapped slowly. "It's nice to see your little hobby hasn't dulled your mind."

Sherlock staggered, slipping in the tub and dropping down hard on one knee. He looked back up to where Moriarty had stood to find him gone.

John was at the detective's side, helping him to sit on the edge of the tub. "Right. We should have taken you to A&E." He turned his head to call for Mary, but she was already hovering in the doorway. "Would you get my kit? He's still hallucinating. I need to check him over, see what other damage he's managed to do to himself." He grabbed Sherlock by the nape, forcing him to look into his eyes. "This is why you can't keep doing these things! You've been endangering your mind, the thing that makes you who you are." Abruptly, he pulled the detective to him, holding him close and terribly afraid of letting him go.

Mary returned, John's kit in hand and placed it on the floor. She grabbed a towel and passed it to her husband. "Do you need my help?" she asked quietly, suppressing a renewed pang of sadness.

"No," John replied, his voice slightly strained. When he let go of Sherlock, the other man started to slip from his perch. "Actually, yeah." The doctor draped the towel over Sherlock's lap, then steadied him. "Hand me my stethoscope and the blood pressure cuff." He'd been monitoring Mary's blood pressure for several weeks, hence the presence of the cuff.

Sherlock's heart rate was elevated as was his blood pressure, but not dangerously so and thankfully his heart was beating in a steady rhythm.

John sighed, feeling a modicum of relief and passed the tools of his trade to Mary who put them away. "You still need to be checked out properly."

"There's no time for that," Sherlock objected. His patience had been strained to the breaking point by all the fussing. He stood, looking for his clothes, forgetting that John had taken them away to be cleaned. Suddenly there was a breath at his neck and a voice in his ear.

"You've never been good at sharing, Sherlock." The detective gave his head a shake, seeking to dispel Moriarty's vocal presence. "Look at her, the little wife. A mother... an as-sas-sin." The voice moved around to his other ear. "Do you think she wants to share?" An imaginary finger probed the scar from the bullet wound in his side. "She didn't before, but women _are_ known for changing their minds."

Sherlock whirled around, locking his eyes on the vision of Moriarty - it was overlaid on John, a clear mistake. The detective began to laugh.

"What?" The spectre scowled. "What!"

"You're nothing compared to John. Remember at the falls?" Sherlock was holding his arms out to his sides. "He made you fly."

The doctor stepped forward and grasped Sherlock by the arms, shaking him. "Enough!" he shouted.

Moriarty faded away, leaving the detective staring at a very frightened John.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock, wrapped in John’s dressing gown, sat on the soft. He was snugged up tightly in the corner, his knees tucked under his chin as he thought. John and Mary were in an adjacent room, their whispered conversation drifting to his ears.

“…the flat…”

“…furious…about ten minutes…”

The detective shifted where he sat, flopping down on the sofa. “Would you two stop your insistent chattering?!” He had to think, put aside his self-pity and the spectres of the past. He had to ignore the creeping feeling of need that he steadfastly refused to admit he felt, at least out loud. There was something he was missing, something important.

There was a brief moment of silence, then the whispering resumed. “…Greg…”

The pieces slotted into place. “John! Where’s my mobile!” He was up and across the room in just a few short moments and loomed in the doorway. “Now, John!”

The doctor took a step “I don’t have it, what’s wrong? What have you figured out?”

“I’ve got it,” Mary commented as she went to fetch her handbag. She dug the phone out and passed it to Sherlock.

Fingers flying, Sherlock unlocked the screen and dialled. He wheeled about, walking back into the other room. “Mycroft,” he spat the moment his brother answered. “He’ll be going after Greg and Mrs. Hudson.”

The British Government’s voice interjected,  _“He?”_

“He, she, it, doesn’t matter. They’re in danger. Make yourself useful. Do something!”

 _“Sherlock,”_  Mycroft spoke softly,  _“What would you have me do?”_

The detective growled.

_“That wasn’t sarcasm, baby brother. It’s a genuine question. Shall I have them taken into protective custody?”_

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded, though Mycroft couldn’t see it. His thoughts flew. “And Molly.” The detective started pacing.

There was a pause, then,  _“They will be picked up within the next half hour. Anything else, bother dear?”_

Sherlock hesitated. “Whoever it is will probably be under the mistaken delusion that I care about you,” he spat. “So take precautions.”

 _“Ah, very touching,”_  Mycroft replied, his tone cool.  _“I assure you, I am quite safe.”_

“Fine. Good day.” With that, the detective rang off the line.

“It won’t be enough.” The words were whispered in Sherlock’s ear with an Irish brogue.

The detective’s head jerked up and his body went stiff. “Shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up!” He jerked as he felt a hand close around his shoulder and wheeled about. It was John.

“No one said anything, Sherlock.” The doctor took a deep breath. “You’re having auditory hallucinations, remember?”

Moriarty walked around John and stopped, mere inches from him. “He doesn’t know, Sherlock. Aren’t you going to tell him I’m here?”

Of course, he wouldn’t tell John. Sherlock had been here before, forced into rehab once by Mycroft, and was familiar with the symptoms of withdrawal. Auditory hallucinations weren’t that uncommon in those going through it. So what if his were visual as well? If he could make it two weeks, the hallucinations would subside. If he lived that long. He might not, with Moriarty’s minion out there, seeking revenge. Some would call that paranoia, but it wasn't paranoia when someone really wanted to kill you.

Sherlock brought his palms up to rub at his eyes. He could feel his heart rate increasing, it was racing. He broke out in a sweat, feeling chilled and hot at the same time. Worst of all, he couldn’t breathe. Breathing wasn’t boring, it was necessary, and he couldn’t breathe. Swaying on his feet, the detective staggered to the nearest chair and collapsed into it.

“God fucking damn!” John was at his side, kneeling down and taking Sherlock’s hand in his. “You’ve got to breathe, Sherlock. It’s just a panic attack.”

The detective let out a burst of hysterical laugher that devolved into gasping breathes. “ _Just_  a panic attack.” At least the vice that had been constricting his chest had lessened and he could fill his lungs properly. He tightened his grip on John’s hand. “How am I supposed to keep us alive, John, when I can’t function? You don’t know what it’s like and it’ll just get worse. I won’t be able to sleep,” he was rocking back and forth, “and I’ll be irritable and depressed. I won’t even want to try.”

John spoke, using his calmest, most practiced doctor’s voice, “You never sleep, you’re always irritable and the depression  _will_  pass.”

“Not soon enough.” The detective was shaking his head. “Please,” he looked at John with pleading eyes, “Let me find him, whoever is doing this, then I’ll get clean.”

“No!”

“I’ll be careful, John. I just need enough to make it go away.”

“I. Said. No.” The doctor had raised his other hand to wrap around the back Sherlock’s neck.

The detective lurched to his feet, “You can’t stop me! You can’t keep me here against my will.” He bounded for the door, but was surprised when he wasn’t tackled to the floor.

“If you do this,” John’s voice cracked and Mary placed a hand on his arm. This was tough love at its harshest and he hated what he was about to say. “Don’t come back. Leave me alone. Leave Mary alone. We don’t want to see you.”

Sherlock’s shoulders slumped and he paused. He had jumped off a building for John. That had been easy. Could he sacrifice their relationship to keep John alive? He took a hesitant step towards the door, then sagged, going down on his knees as he shook. He should make that sacrifice, but he couldn’t. He simply couldn’t.


	9. Chapter 9

Greg was halfway to the Watson’s. There was a small suitcase with the necessities he had gathered for Sherlock sitting on the passenger seat. Each item had been meticulously examined and found clean. He was approaching a traffic light, when a black car came screeching to a halt in front of him. He swore, barely managing to avoid a collision. Before he could step from the car, three more cars blocked him in. This couldn’t be good. He hit the button to lock the doors.

A man in a suit approached the passenger side of the DI’s car, his hands raised to show he wasn’t carrying a weapon. Greg cracked the window a bit, just enough to hear what the man might have to say.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade, Mr. Holmes has sent us to collect you. If you’ll please come with us…”

Greg debated. This seemed like something Sherlock’s brother might orchestrate, but how could he be sure that Mycroft was really behind this?

“In the event that you should question our identities, I was instructed to remind you of your assistance at Baskerville.”

With a sigh, Greg opened the door and climbed out of the car, pulling the suitcase behind him. He handed it off to the man. “Could you see this gets to Mr. Holmes’ brother?” He didn’t bother telling the man where Sherlock was, he probably already knew anyway.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson opened the door to 221 to find Mycroft’s PA standing there.

Anthea smiled briefly, for once putting away her phone and stepping forward. “Mrs. Hudson, Mr. Holmes sent me. I’m afraid you’ll need to gather a few things and come with me.”

Hands fluttering at her chest, Mrs. Hudson objected, “Oh, dear me. I couldn’t possibly.” She looked over her shoulder back towards the door to her flat. “I have scones in the oven and Mrs. Turner…”

“The matter pertains to Moriarty.”

The normally intrepid Mrs. Hudson let out a small “Oh” as she slumped against the doorframe. “I’ll just get my things.”

* * *

At the sound of the morgue doors swinging open, Molly looked up from the corpse she had been examining. There were three suited men walking towards her.

She frowned, then stepped forward. “I’m sorry, but you can’t be in here.”

The taller of the men smiled and explained, “Actually, we can. We’ve been sent my Mycroft Holmes. Considering your part in faking his brother’s death, he’s concerned for your safety. I’m afraid you’ll have to come with us.”

The other two men spread out, looking around the room, observing.

Molly’s heart sped up, it was almost beating out of her chest. This had to be about Moriarty. “Just give me a mo. I need to fetch my purse.” She turned to walk to her desk in the back of the room only to have a gun shoved in her face.

“No time for that, I’m afraid,” the gun wielding man told her.

The first man shook his head ruefully. “Was that really necessary? She would have walked out of here without raising a fuss.”

“Oh, I’ve got that figured out.” He gestured towards an empty body bag. “We’ll take her out that way.”

Molly started to scream, but was cut off as the gun hit her hard on the head and her world went black.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for the kind comments. The response to this fic has been overwhelming. I'm going to try to do better at responding, but I make no promises. Just know your comments mean the world to me.

John's left hand had started trembling. The tremors passed into his arm, then over took his entire body. Sherlock Hadn't left. Thank God, he hadn't left. He took the few steps required to bring him up behind the detective and placed his hand on his shoulder. His fingers convulsed as he gathered his breath to speak. "Thank you for making the right decision."

A brittle laugh escape Sherlock even as he tried to climb to his feet. John was so naive. Didn't he understand? Couldn't he see? The detective's mind was limping along, desperately in need of something to make it whir efficiently.

For her part, Mary was both relieved and disappointed. She knew that John would have been devastated if Sherlock had left. She gave a shudder, God alone knew what would have become of Sherlock. It was a situation she didn't want to contemplate. 

The disappointment was something else she didn't want to contemplate. It seemed to validate the cold part of herself that she was trying to eliminate, the part of herself that had allowed her to shoot Sherlock, the part that John hated.

On top of all that, she knew she was a bit of a chameleon and that she could fake emotions far better than Sherlock could. The detective knew that as well. She only hoped that he could tell when her emotions were not being faked. Especially now that she had come to care for him. He probably did know, because he understood that she genuinely loved John.

Mary gave herself a shake and forced herself to move forward. She wrapped her arms around Sherlock, who had stood, trying to reassure him. "It was the right choice, though I know you don't believe it."

Sherlock stood there for a moment, frustrated and confused. He had to shove those feelings aside. Head lowered, he spoke to the floor. "John, you need to fetch your SIG. I know you keep it loaded, but keep it on your person at all times." He looked up as he turned to face Mary. Their eyes locked and held for a moment, then she nodded, understanding his unspoken words.

Knowing her husband would be angry, but willing to face that anger to help protect him, she went to their bedroom. Mary went awkwardly to her knees, and reached under the bed. She felt around until her hand closed on the handle of a black bag and she drew it out. It was heavy, but, even pregnant, she had no trouble lifting it.

By the time Mary had returned to the living room, John had sat in his favourite chair. Sherlock had returned to pacing, though far less energetically than normal. She sat the bag on the coffee table and was about to open it when she hesitated. She took a deep breath and braced herself. "John, you're not going to be happy with me." She laughed. "Actually, you're going to be quite angry, but please, don't yell at me. Not now. When we come out the other side of this, you can yell all you like."

John leaned forward, dropping his face to his hands. He knew he was being watched by both Mary and Sherlock, but didn't really care. He needed a break, a few days of peace with no disasters, no gut wrenching revelations, and above all, no deceptions.

Mary opened to bag and started unloading its contents. There were three handguns, a shotgun and three high powered rifles. There was also a wealth of ammunition.

John stared at the pile of weapons, feeling resigned. He barely noticed when Sherlock's phone rang and he stepped into the kitchen to answer it. "Is this it? Is there anything else that I should know?" John wasn't angry that his wife had the guns, that would have been hypocritical, he was angry that she had hidden them from him.

Mary stopped in the action of inserting a clip into one of the handguns. She was afraid to meet John's eyes. Resuming her inspection of the guns, she began talking. "I have a numbered account with quite a bit of money, nothing you would fill comfortable touching." She glanced up at her husband. "I've been trying to decide how to dispose of it." She picked up another gun. "It seems I don't want the money anymore."

John was about to reply, to say something, when Sherlock's raised voice sounded from the kitchen, "You're fucking useless, Mycroft!"


	11. Chapter 11

John had risen to his feet at Sherlock's words. He didn't even flinch when Sherlock's mobile went flying, it was rather expected at that point. "What's happened?"

"Mycroft let her be taken." The detective started pacing again, his anger and frustration overriding his looming apathy. "He's useless," he spat.

Even as John asked who had been taken, demanding a name, Moriarty's shade made an appearance. "Ohhh, that's nice." He grinned maniacally. "I quite like how you treat big brother. I don't even need to give you pointers."

Sherlock's hand came up in a dismissive gesture. "Molly. He was supposed to be taking her into protective custody, but he let them get to her first."

"Slow Mycroft. If only he had been faster." Moriarty clapped. "Oh, wait. Weren't you the one that was slow?" He drummed his fingers against his lips. "Mmm. You should have asked for his help yesterday. And you didn't even ask him to protect your dear John."

As fast as a heartbeat, Sherlock had snatched a handgun from the coffee table and had pointed it at Moriarty. A muscle twitched along his jawline as he held the gun steady.

John found himself looking down the barrel of a gun. He brought his hands up slowly and spoke, keeping his voice level and low, "Sherlock put down the gun." He took a careful step towards the detective, trying not to startle him.

Sherlock blinked as John stepped through the image of Moriarty, dispelling the spectre. His arm dropped limply to his side as his heart fluttered and he didn't resist as Mary gently took the gun from his listless hand. When Sherlock spoke, his voice sounded far away to his own ears. "Perhaps... I should keep my distance from weapons for a few weeks." He looked around the room, bemused. "I need my clothes, Mary. I can't go after Molly in John's dressing gown."

"No!" John had stepped forward so that he was right in front of Sherlock. He looked him squarely in the eyes. "You almost shot me. Something's going on that you're not telling me. You're not just hearing things, are you?"

The detective put on his haughty demeanour. "Irrelevant. If I don't get to the crime scene and figure out what happened to Molly, where they've taken her, it will be too late. She'll be dead."

While they were talking, Mary moved the guns out of sight. She'd had guns trained on her numerous times, but seeing Sherlock pointing one at John had been almost more than she could take. If he had pulled the trigger, she would have gladly killed him. She might have regretted it later given his obviously deteriorated mental state. No, if he had killed John, then killing Sherlock would have been a mercy killing. The guns safely put away, she sat in her chair and let herself shake.

"It's not bloody irrelevant!" John grabbed him by the arms. "You've gone off your rocker."

The detective jerked away from the doctor's grip. "If I am, it's your fault! You won't let me do anything about it!"

John turned away and walked to Mary's side. "You okay?"

She took his hand and nodded in the affirmative. "You?"

"Oh, yeah. Just wonderful." John rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. Not turning, he addressed Sherlock, "We're not going to keep rehashing this. I know good and well you were hallucinating on the plane. Another hit isn't going to help. The only thing that will help is time." He heaved a sigh. "Time that, you're right, Molly doesn't have. So..." Now he did turn to face Sherlock, though he didn't drop Mary's hand. "You're going to have to trust me and that means telling me what is going on. I have to know so I can help."

The detective's eyes narrowed. He couldn't trust his own perceptions. It made sense to trust John's. "Fine, I'll tell you and then we go find Molly."

Feeling caught between the proverbial rock and a hard place, John agreed, "Fine."

"It's Moriarty. I don't just hear him, I see him."

As if conjured by the words, the criminal mastermind appeared behind John and waved.

"Jesus," John breathed as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

Sherlock shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. "The things he has to say aren't very nice."

"Oh, Sherlock." It was Mary's voice.

The detective turned his head to peer in her direction. "I had hallucinations when Mycroft forced me into rehab. The experience was similar. The hallucinations should peek in a day or so, then reduce in frequency over the next two weeks until they cease altogether. That is, if the pattern holds. Now my clothes, Mary."


	12. Chapter 12

The three of them, Sherlock, Mary and John entered the morgue. The detective brushed by the officers present without a second glance, leaving the doctor to smooth things over with Gregson.

Sherlock's gaze swept over the morgue as he took everything in and started filing away his preliminary observations, his mobile pressed to his ear. With a growl, he pressed 'end' and cut the unanswered call short. Why was it he was expected to answer Mycroft's calls promptly, but his brother didn't feel the need to reciprocate? He was probably trying to avoid another tongue lashing over Molly.

Sherlock swept towards the centre of the room, though with a bit less energy than normal, and squatted down to look at the footprint that was clearly visible there. He glanced back towards the door, noting that there were no traces of dirt or footprints of any kind to be seen. Interesting. "Look at this, John." Sherlock pointed at the footprint. "This was left here deliberately for me to find. With no debris tracked to this point, this dirt would have had to been dropped here and then stepped in purposefully." Looking up, he spotted a bit of vegetation. "Ah, how convenient." As he reached for the small bunch of leaves, he glanced up at nothing and made a small angry gesture.

John reached out and closed his hand on Sherlock's wrist. Silver-grey eyes met his. The clear distress the doctor saw there slowly drained away into a thankful smile. John cleared his throat before asking awkwardly, "Do I make him go away?"

Sherlock's eyes slid away from John's face and darted around the room, lighting on Mary. She gave him a nod and a smile as if to say 'Tell him.' He looked back at John. "Apparently so." A shuddering sigh escaped him and he changed the subject. "We're obviously being set up."

Brow creased, John asked, "How so?"

"Undoubtedly, this soil sample and these leaves will point us to a specific..."

His mobile pinged. With a roll of his eyes, Sherlock fetched it from his pocket. There was a video message waiting. Glancing at John, he opened the message. The detective found himself unsurprised to see Molly staring back at him. She was bound and gagged, but not blindfolded. There was a trickle of blood running down her face from her hairline. Oddly, it didn't make her look vulnerable. When coupled with the anger burning in her eyes, it made her look fierce. "Good girl, Molly," Sherlock muttered. "Don't let them break you."

The viewpoint of the video shifted. Now it was trained on what was clearly a bomb. The device had a timing mechanism attached reading 04:47:03. The last two digits were decreasing at a rate of one per second.

At John's questioning look, Sherlock handed his phone to John. The doctor walked over to Mary and they watched the short video together.

"Jesus!" John's hand closed on the phone so tightly his knuckles went white.

Mary's mouth was set in a grim line.

"Ok. Ok." John started pacing furiously. He stopped and looked at Sherlock. "Now what?"

Instead of answering, Sherlock began deducing aloud, "This is all being done in Moriarty's name, but it lacks his elegance."

"But he used bombs before," John interjected.

"Which is why he would never use them again. Up until now, I have been assuming he left directions, a plan to be executed, but this... No. Whoever is doing this is playing by ear." He was up and pacing as he rubbed his hands together beneath his chin. "So, this is either a diversion or a trap."

Mary waved her hand towards the mobile that was still clutched in John's hand. "But how do we know which one?"

"We don't. It will be just Sherlock and me." John gave her a stern look. "We shouldn't even have brought you here."

"I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself," she shot back.

"John knows that, but you have to think of the baby as well." As Sherlock spoke, the look he gave her was one of understanding. He would never have agreed to being left behind, regardless of the circumstances, if their rolls had been reversed. Abruptly his expression changed and his eyes flickered to the side. "Shut up!"

Moving to Sherlock's side, John reached out and took the detective's shaking hand. "Just focus on the clues and tell me what we do next."

"What we're going to do, is play their subpar game." Sherlock gathered a sample of the dirt and the leaves to be analysed in the lab. "And Mary is going back home."


	13. Chapter 13

Mycroft sat with his elbows on his desk and his head resting in his hands. There were numerous papers strewn across his desk. He had them memorized by now. Still, there had to be something he had missed.

Shaw, a young man in his early twenties, entered his office quietly and sat a cup of tea at Mycroft’s elbow. “Anything else, Sir?”

The government official wearily offered his thanks and waved Shaw away. He flipped through a few more pages as he sipped his tea. It was adequate, but he would be thankful when Anthea returned from settling Mrs. Hudson it at the vacation cottage in Sussex. He frowned as Shaw burst into his office again.

“Sorry, Mr. Holmes, but there’s been news concerning your brother.” Mycroft was already halfway standing as Shaw continued, “He’s been admitted to A&E.”

“What happened?” Mycroft asked as he cleared his desk and locked the files in the side drawer.

Shaw shrugged in apology. “It looks like a heart attack from the symptoms.”

The government official berated himself for not insisting his brother go straight to A&E from the airport. Cocaine overdoses were notorious for the damage they could do to the human heart.

Shaw held Mycroft’s coat for him as he shrugged it on, then padded after his boss to the waiting car.

Once on the road, the government official leaned against the glass of the car window in a rare show of exhaustion. He let his eyes close for a moment, but couldn’t find the energy to open them again. Mycroft felt a hand at his throat taking his pulse.

“He’s under.”

Shaw’s words came to Mycroft as if from a distance, but they were clear enough to let him know that he was in trouble. His last thought he had was of his brother. He only hoped John would take care of him as he had promised.

* * *

In the lab, Sherlock stood to his feet, backing away from the microscope and other machinery. He was wearing a look of total disgust. “Why didn’t they just leave a candy wrapper? It would have been far more expedient.” He pulled on his Belstaff and headed for the door.

“Wait!” John grabbed the detective by the upper arm. “What did you find? Where are we going?”  
  
Sherlock shot the doctor a look. “Molly’s being held in the candy factory.”

“The candy… Oh, the one Moriarty used when he kidnapped the kids.”

“Obviously.” Sherlock resumed his stride, talking as he went. “Whoever is carrying out his directives is a miserable copycat without a hint of originality.” He glanced at his watch. “It will take us about an hour to get there. With the time we’ve spent in the lab, we’ll have about three hours to extricate Molly.”

John grabbed him by the arm again. “And this time, you’re calling for backup.”

Sherlock shook his head, “Too risky. We’re going alone.”

“For God’s sake!” John visibly gave himself a shake and lowered his voice from a shout. “How is it too risky?”

“Don’t you see?! It’s a trap.”

“All the more reason to call in reinforcements.”

“No.” Sherlock pulled away from John’s touch and gestured in the doctor’s direction. “One sign of the police and Molly will be dead. “Do you want to risk that?”

John walked a few steps away, then turned and paced back to Sherlock’s side. “No, no. Of course not.”

* * *

The cab pulled over at Sherlock’s direction, just a few short blocks from the old sweet factory. He and John moved silently towards the factory in the distance, splitting up as they approached. They wouldn’t be taking the main entrance, but would be using the entrances at the side.

The complex was large, but Sherlock was certain that Molly was being held in the same location the children had been. He pulled out his mobile and used its screen for illumination. As he slipped through the outer corridors, Moriarty kept him company. It was maddening, infuriating. He needed John _here_ , but he needed him more where he was, coming up from the other side of the factory.

Rounding a corner, he saw Molly. She was bathed in the glow of a camping torch and appeared just as she had in the video, bound and gagged and radiating fury. There was no one else in sight. Gingerly, he stepped out into the open and approached Molly. Her eyes widened and her relief at seeing him was clear to read on her face.

“Hello, Molly,” he said as he plucked a hairpin from her hair and set to work on the handcuffs that were holding her in place. “John will be here at any moment.” The handcuffs opened with a click.

Molly reached up and pulled the gag from her mouth. “The bomb…”

Sherlock glanced down at the timer sat on a metal box. “Is an obvious fake. The timer isn’t even connected to anything.”

“We’re not going to die, then?” Molly was giving him a strangely intense look.

“Not to disappoint you, but it appears not.” Even as he said it, he was looking around. Where were they, the people that did this? They should be here.

“Good.” Molly sprang up and wrapped her arms around the detective. “I think I’m going to have a bit of a hysterical cry. If you don’t mind?”

Wrapping his arms around her awkwardly, Sherlock patted her back. She deserved a bit of a cry, after all.


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock stiffened, his arms tightening around Molly instinctively when he heard a scuffling sound. It wasn't the sound of John's cautious stride. Before he could properly react, a brown haired man stepped out from behind a piece of old broken down machinery. He had John in a choke hold, a gun pressed to the doctor's temple.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes," the man said in a light conversational tone.

Moriarty jumped with glee where he was stood in the shadows. "You made another mistake, Shezza. You really are slipping."

Ignoring the spectre and taking Molly by the arm, the detective shoved her behind him, offering what little shelter his body could provide. He watched the man with the gun, taking in every nuance of his stance and expression. "You have no intention of shooting. Interesting." Sherlock gestured around the abandoned factory. "You've gone to elaborate lengths to get my attention. Well, you have it. Now lower the gun."

Shaking his head, the man shifted his aim, pointing the gun at Sherlock. "We're not here to talk. I have a delivery to make." He waved the gun briefly at the box the timer was sitting on. "Open it up." The gun was resting against John's temple again.

Despite what he had said, Sherlock knew the brown haired man would fire if forced to it, so he bent down and flipped open the box. Inside were a pair of handcuffs and a syringe. His eyes flicked up the gun wielding man. "If you think..."

"I do, Mr. Holmes. You'll inject yourself then put on the handcuffs, but don't get too excited, it's only something to help you sleep."

Moriarty danced about, weaving in and out of the darkness between Sherlock and where John was held hostage. It was almost all Sherlock could do to ignore the distraction, but he managed it.

The detective stood and backed away from the box. He met John's eyes and saw understanding there, much as he had done so long ago by a darkened pool side. "No. I don't believe I will." There was flicker of motion in the darkness behind the doctor and the gunman.

John's eyes closed as the barrel of the gun pressed with more force against his temple.

"If I do as you say, you'll likely kill Molly and John anyway. I'm quite certain that whatever you have planned for me is quite distasteful. Given those facts..." Sherlock's lip curled in contempt. "Go ahead and pull the trigger."

Moriarty stopped his dancing. "Oh, that's bold."

Before the brown haired man could respond, Mary stepped out of the shadows and rested the muzzle of the gun against the base of his skull. "I would prefer you didn't, if it's all the same to you." She walked around the man, keeping the muzzle in contact with him the entire time.

The gunman glanced at her, taking in her pregnant form and he sneered. "You won't pull the trigger, a little thing like you. Mummy isn't a killer."

Mary smiled sweetly. "Lady Aurora is, though." The man blanched. "I see you've heard the name. Now, give me the gun and let my husband go." Shaking, he allowed her to pluck the gun from his hand. "That's a dear. Now let him go."

John stepped away from the man, massaging his neck where he had been gripped too tightly. He was torn between relief and anger. Mary shouldn't have endangered herself or the baby, but considering the alternative, he didn't want to shout. This wasn't the time or place for such a discussion anyway. Instead, he plucked his SIG from the other man's waistband where the erstwhile gunman had tucked it after disarming him.

"Thank you, Mary," Sherlock commented as he approached. He abruptly grasped the gunman by the lapels of his jacket and slammed him up against a piece of equipment. "I've had a very bad week - killed a man just days ago. I could relieve quite a bit of stress by pummelling you senseless. So give me a reason. Please. Now tell me what I need to know."

In the background, Moriarty clapped his approval.

The man looked frantically from Sherlock to Mary to John. There was no mercy in any of their eyes. He caught sight of Molly standing in the shadows and directed his plea towards her, "Please, I can't tell you anything. It's as much as my life is worth if I do." Molly glared at him and silently turned her back on the proceedings.

Sherlock's fist flew, all his pent up rage and frustration behind it. The man doubled over in pain. "Again?" the detective asked coldly.

It wasn't the pain that broke the man, but Sherlock's clear willingness to inflict as much pain and damage as necessary that did it. Withholding information wasn't in the man's best interest, so he cut his losses. "What do you want to know?"

"A name," Sherlock snapped immediately. "Who's behind this?"

The gunman grimaced, but answered, "Walsh. Alexander Walsh."

The detective's mouth formed a silent 'oh' as he backed away and pulled his mobile from the depths of the Belstaff's pockets. He jabbed at the screen, then held it to his ear as he paced. He wasn't surprised not to get an answer. He wheeled about and, in a rush, slammed the gunman against the machinery again. "Tell me this. Is Mycroft still alive?"

John performed a double take. "What? Mycroft? Sherlock what's going on?"

"Walsh is Mycroft's chief rival. He's a piece of work comparable to Magnussen. But why is he acting now?" The last was a rhetorical question, but the gunman didn't take it so.

"He's operating on instructions, he said, from a dead friend." The gunman looked panicked. "I know it doesn't make sense, but that's what he said."

Sherlock's hands went limp and he backed away. His eyes drifted to the spectre, no longer trying to ignore it. "Moriarty." It suddenly became too much, and the detective bent over to retch. John was immediately at his side, his touch dispelling the hated vision. Sherlock looked up at the doctor, eyes pleading. "I'm tired, John. I can't do this."

"I know," John soothed, "but you really don't have a choice. I'm sorry. When this is over, you can rest then, yeah?" The doctor's hand was stroking Sherlock's back in a slow and steady rhythm.

The detective straightened up, gathering both his dignity and his determination about himself once more. Turning, he regarded the gunman. "For your sake, I hope you can take me to Mycroft."


	15. Chapter 15

The man cringed in Sherlock's grip and he started nodding vigorously. "He's alive. Yes, yes. You've got to believe me." As the detective's grip tightened, the man added, "Walsh was waiting on you. He was going to hurt him by hurting you."

Sherlock released the man's lapels, smoothing them down with his hands. Somehow, even that action seemed incredibly menacing. He was a coiled spring.  
From the shadows, Moriarty tutted. "And you're still missing something. I'm rather surprised it didn't get you killed."

Sherlock's own mind was taunting him, he knew that, so what was he missing? The detective's eyes fell on Molly.

"How many?"

She blinked at him. "What?"

Sherlock swooped down on her, driving her a step back. "How many people were there when you were kidnapped?"

"Oh." Molly's hand went to the cut and small lump that was hidden at her hairline. "There were three of them, I think." Mary noticed the gesture and stepped to her side to examine the wound.

"Be Certain!" Sherlock snapped.

Molly nodded furiously. "Yes, there were three of them. I remember."

"Then why aren't they here?" the detective asked of no one in particular. He turned slowly, looking at Molly's kidnapper. "They would have been unknown to Mycroft, so they didn't go after him, they couldn't have gotten close enough. No, they had another job, to assist with preparations for our arrival once I had been caught." Sherlock smiled and it was cold. "I was supposed to come alone. Idiots. I'm never alone." His eyes drifted to John then to the spectre of Moriarty. "Am I?" he asked of it.  
  
Moriarty crossed his arms looking offended.

Ignoring the detective's question, John spoke, "I'm getting tired of holding my gun on this prick, so would you mind terribly tossing me the handcuffs?"

Bending down, Sherlock scooped them up from where they had fallen when he had freed Molly and then tossed them to John who quickly cuffed the man to a piece of equipment.

"Mary?" John asked, noticing her fussing over Molly.

"She was hit in the head, John. She said she blacked out."  
  
The doctor tucked the SIG into his waistband and walked over to them. He gave her a quick examination. "It doesn't look like concussion, but you need to get to A&E for a thorough examination. A blow to the head is nothing to muck about with."

Mary sighed, knowing where this was going. "Yes, I'll take her, but you have to promise me you'll be careful. I want Amelia to know her father."

The mention of the baby shot a jolt of envy and despair through Sherlock, but he ruthlessly pushed it down. He had to be the machine right now. Nothing else would save Mycroft and, much to his surprise, he found that he very much cared if he succeeded or not.

Returning to the box that had been sitting by Molly's chair, Sherlock drew out a second pair of handcuffs. He hefted them in his hand, then fastened them around his left wrist. "John," he called, "If you would." Turning his back, he waited for the doctor to fasten the other link around his right wrist behind him." It didn't happen.

John gave him a hard look. "No. In a long list of bad ideas, this is one of your worst."

"What's he..." Molly began, but Mary hushed her.

"Do you have a better idea? No, of course not." There was something of Sherlock's old cutting disdain in his voice. "We have to use the tools at hand. That means letting Walsh think his plan worked. This idiot," the detective jerked his head in the direction of the kidnapper, "can lead us straight to him. I'll play the part of his drugged prisoner and you'll hide in the back seat with a gun on him. You'll have to hide from CCTV cameras, of course, crawl down on the floor, but you can keep a gun on him the entire time."

Mary didn't like it. In fact she hated the idea, but Sherlock might right. She sighed, worrying that John would go along with the plan. "Is there anyone you can call for backup?"

The detective shook his head. "No one we can trust."

"Yes," John corrected him, "Greg."

"He's in protective custody," Sherlock disagreed. "Mycroft confirmed it."

The doctor had pulled out his phone and dialled. "Do you think his people can be trusted?"

Sherlock's heart skipped a beat and he felt like his mind was grinding to a halt. He was an idiot! He should have called Lestrade himself to check on his safety. Moriarty's mocking laughter filled his ears. He had to make it stop, he had to. Without thinking, he took John's free hand. The laughter halted abruptly and his mind cleared.

"Oh, Greg. Thank God!" John breathed a sigh of relief. "Are you safe?" He nodded as the DI said that he was fine, just drowning in luxury at some posh hotel. "Good, good. Can you get away?"

As plans were made, Mary looked on. John hadn't dropped Sherlock's hand. She wondered if he even realised he was still holding it. Feeling eyes on her, she turned her head. Molly was giving her a sad, understanding smile. Mary's mouth thinned into a white line as she nodded. "I know."


	16. Chapter 16

Mycroft clawed his way to wakefulness. His head swam and nothing he saw made any sense. He didn't recognise his surroundings and had no idea how he had arrived at his present location. A face appeared in his frame of vision. It was alarmingly familiar and made his already racing heart pick up it6s pace. Rough hands reached out and manhandled Mycroft to a sitting position. He was so tired and the shift in position caused a wave of dizziness to sweep over him so he tried to lay back down. 

"Ah, no, no, no, Mycroft. It's time to wake up now."

The captive government official tried to focus on the face before him, but his vision had doubled. He felt as though he might pass out. Considering that he was undoubtedly in danger, the prospect was oddly comforting. Mycroft's vision started to go black.

"They gave him too much. The idiots."

Ah, he thought, that explains it, then he sank beneath the growing darkness once more.

The next time Mycroft woke, it was with far more clarity of mind. He was aware of his arms bound painfully behind him and the seam of a sofa cushion pressed into his cheek.

"Ah, Sleeping Beauty awakens."

Mycroft recognised the voice and tilted his head in its direction. "Walsh." The captive government official's voice came out as a croak - his mouth was dry. Rough hands hefted him to a sitting position as he struggled to focus on his captor.

Alexander Walsh brought a glass of water over and pressed it to Mycroft's lips. "You must be thirsty. The drug my people used is similar to ketamine in its affects, but without the distinctive flavour and it does tend to leave one parched."

The government official drank deeply. If Walsh wanted to drug him, he would, depriving himself of hydration would serve no purpose. As soon as he had drank his fill, Mycroft pulled away from the glass and murmured, "Thank you." He might as well be polite.

Alex stepped back and sat in his chair, crossing his legs. "You have questions." He sat the glass of water down with a click and picked up a glass of scotch. He swirled it around. "Ask."

Clearing his throat, Mycroft obliged him, "Why now?"

"That's what I like about you, Mycroft. You skip over the trivialities and go right to the heart of the matter." Walsh took a sip of his scotch. "It's the fault of that psychopathic brother of yours. His little stunt forced my hand, so to speak. I would have thought that was obvious. I need him so that I can tear you apart."

Mycroft's mind latched onto one word: need. That meant Walsh had plans for his brother. "You have me. You can get anything you want from me, you don't need Sherlock."

"Listen to yourself, Mycroft. Your very words tell me that I do need him. That's why I set up the Moriarty charade."

It didn't matter anymore, but Mycroft now understood how the Moriarty broadcast had been done. He had eliminated his colleagues early on as possible perpetrators of the broadcast. That had obviously been a mistake.

Walsh's next words interrupted Mycroft's thoughts. "Besides, I owe a dead friend a favour. I'll make dear Shezza bleed, I'll rip his heart out, and that will destroy you. Then when you're both broken I'll cheerfully kill you, but only after making you watch him die."

Mycroft sneered. "You sound like Moriarty. I take it he was your _friend_." If he could just goad Walsh into killing him now. "You're nothing compared to Moriarty. He was a genius. You were nothing but his goldfish. Only Moriarty could have hoped to trap my brother you..."

"I'll have him!" Walsh shouted, then calmed himself. "My man will have him in custody soon. He's walking into my trap as we speak." He sipped his scotch. "Moriarty taught me many things, Mycroft. He taught me how to manipulate the security database. When you die, all of your authority will be assigned to me." He gave Mycroft an evil look. "Even better, he taught me how to play with my toys." He placed his glass on the table and stood, walking to stand in front of Mycroft. "This is so brother dear will be properly distressed when he arrives." Alex drew back his arm and landed a blow on Mycroft's cheek. The captive government official fell to his side. Walsh gestured to one of the two men who promptly lifted Mycroft to his feet and held him there while Alex rained down blow after blow on his still drug-weakened body.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm late posting again. Sorry. RL. My mother had surgery and I couldn't stand to face the angst, so I went off and attempted a bit of humour and smut.

"Tell Lestrade the plan," Sherlock ordered.

John looked at him, “No. We’re not following that plan. It’s complete shite.”

Greg’s voice came over the phone, “He’s got a plan. What is it?”

“It’s not a plan, It’s surrender and we’re not doing it.” At the look on the detective’s face, John continued. “Walking in there, cuffed, is not a plan.” John jerked his head in the direction of the kidnapper. “He’d give you away instantly and he’d alert them I was following you.” His tone softened. “Sherlock, you’re not… You’re not thinking clearly. You have to know that.”

Sherlock tried to jerk his hand away, but the doctor held to it tightly. John was right. Sherlock felt like his brain was congealing inside his skull. He expected to hear Moriarty’s mocking voice, but it was held at bay by the hand gripping his own. The detective let out a shuddering breath and spoke, trying to sound composed, “Then what do you suggest?”

John spoke into the phone so Greg could hear him as well, “We’ll use the gunman like you suggested to lead us to Walsh, but we’ll stop a safe distance away and assess the situation. And, Greg, you should be able to track Sherlock on that website of his. You can meet us where they’re holding Mycroft.”

“That’s hardly a  _plan_ ,” the detective growled.

“It’s the start of one,” John shot back.

On the phone, Lestrade agreed. “Just promise you two will wait on me to catch you up.”

“I guarantee it,” the doctor agreed. “Good luck, Greg.”

The DI came back with, “You too. Both of you, stay safe,” and he rang off.

Mary had walked near. She put a hand on her husband’s shoulder. “Molly and I are going, now. Please…”

Sherlock gave her a weak smile. “I’ll make sure he stays safe.”

Impulsively, Mary wrapped her arms around the detective. “You stay safe too.”

The detective stood there, letting her hug him and not knowing what to make of it. He breathed a sigh of relief when she let go and joined Molly as they began walking away. When this was over, he would go away again and this time, he wouldn’t come back. Mary didn’t deserve him interfering with her life. Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest defensively as he tried to ignore the sound of Moriarty laughing.

* * *

Greg rang off and stared at his phone. Somehow he had always known he'd end up being drawn into Sherlock's insanity, well, even more so than he had been to this point. He pocketed the phone and stared at the door of his suite. Walking over, he looked through the peep hole. There were two men sitting in chairs in the hallway. They'd never let him simply walk out of this place.

The DI pulled out his pack of cigarettes and emptied it, dropped the cigarettes on a nearby table, and pocketed the empty pack. Bracing himself, he pulled the door open. "I need a beer."

The two men looked at him blankly.

Leaning up against the door frame, Greg shoved his hands in his pockets. "I don't mean to be a bother, but I tried calling room service. I was informed that they weren't allowed to deliver to this room. I imagine that's your boss' doing." He gave a shrug. "Security and all that."

One if the men gave a sigh and stood. "Would you like anything else, Inspector Lestrade?"

Greg pretended to ponder. "Yeah. I think Mr. Holmes owes me a big, juicy steak. Something nice and thick. Cooked just so with a thin line of pink running through the centre."

The standing man gave a little laugh. "I don't blame you, I'd probably ask for the same." He glanced at the other guard. "I'll be right back."

When the man reached the lift and punched the button, Greg took a couple of steps into the hallway and called out, "Steamed asparagus too! And chocolate cake." His motions had brought him close to where the second guard sat.

The lift opened and the first guard disappeared into it.

"I really need a cigarette. I don't imagine your supposed to smoke in a posh place like this, but..." He gave a shrug, reached into his pocket and pulled out the empty pack of cigarettes. "Damn! You wouldn't happen to have a cigarette on you?"

"Menthol," the guard offered.

"So long as there's nicotine behind it somewhere." Greg shrugged and put on a desperate face.

"I could use one, myself." The guard rose to his feet and reached into his jacket pocket.

Lestrade tackled the man to the ground and, after a brief struggle, managed to cuff him by one wrist to the nearby radiator. It was an advantage of being on the same side - they hadn't searched him, so he had still had his cuffs. Greg scrambled quickly out of reach. "Just so you know, I'm really sorry about this." Turning, he ran down the hall and into the stairwell. He took them two at a time.

Bursting onto the pathway, Lestrade spotted a couple about to climb into a waiting cab. He flashed his warrant card. "Sorry police business." Greg shouldered passed the couple and climbed in. With a quick flash of his card to the cabbie, he ordered, "Drive! Anywhere. And fast."

As the cab pulled into the London traffic, Greg sat back and breathed a sigh of relief. He couldn't believe he had gotten away so easily. Greg reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile. Quickly, he pulled up the website Sherlock had specified and entered the required information. A map pulled up with a red blip at the centre. He recognised the location as he had known he would - it was the old sweet factory. Greg gave the cabbie the address and watched the screen, waiting for the dot to move.


	18. Chapter 18

Mary and Molly had been on the road for several minutes. Minutes during which Molly had been staring out the car window, thinking. Her head ached and she was trying to process everything that had happened, everything she had seen and heard. She had never claimed to know Mary very well. Now, as she pictured the blonde woman with a gun in her hand, she suspected that she didn't know her at all. After some time, she steeled herself to speak. "That man... I was angry with him, furious, but I was mostly afraid. I didn't want him to see it, so I tried to hide it." Molly cleared her throat. "But he was... terrified of you."

Mary kept her eyes glued to the road in front of her, her jaw muscles clenched tight. Of course Molly would have questions, the woman wasn't blind or deaf, but what else could she have done? She'd had to protect John.

"What you did was a good thing, I won't argue that. Like you said, John can yell at you to his heart's content later." Molly looked straight at the other woman, all traces of the timid school girl she often appeared to be, nowhere to be found. "But I need to know. If _he_ should be afraid of you?"

If she hadn't been driving, Mary would have closed her eyes. Why couldn't she just leave all of that behind? Maybe because hell was a place of your own making, built choice by choice. She swallowed once and gripped the wheel hard. "You mean Sherlock."

Molly nodded. "And... maybe John."

It was a sad, weary sigh that escaped Mary's lungs. "I've hurt them both enough. Sherlock and John. I never want to see my husband look at me like that again." She gave a genuine shudder at the thought. Some days, she was truly surprised she had survived those first few hours after it had been revealed that she was the one who had shot Sherlock. It was ironic, really, that she probably owed her own life to the detective.

Molly remembered when Sherlock had been shot and the apparent coincidental timing of the Watson's separation. For one fleeting moment, she wondered if it had been Mary who had shot the detective, but she dismissed the idea almost immediately. Mary would be in jail in that case and John would have long since divorced her. Still... "What if John weren't your husband anymore?" Molly whispered the question, afraid of the reaction she would get.

Mary shifted her hold on the wheel, flexing her hands. It was something she didn't want to contemplate, but the idea of John leaving her, of her letting him go, kept rolling through her mind. "I wouldn't hurt them, even then." She had to learn to think like normal people did. Didn't normal people put the happiness of their loved ones before their own? She did love John and she wanted him to be part of their daughter's life.

The traffic light they had stopped at changed to green and she pulled out. There was the screeching of tyres, the sound of an impact and a gut-wrenching sideways lurch of the car. People leapt from passing vehicles to check on the occupants of the cars.

* * *

In the time it took for the two women to disappear into the darkness, Sherlock had picked the lock on the handcuffs dangling from his left wrist because, of course, the idiot kidnapper hadn't had the keys to the cuffs on his person. He pocketed the cuffs for later use.  
John wasn't touching him anymore, but Moriarty was blissfully silent. Sherlock wasn't certain how long that would last, it was far too soon for his hallucinations to stop, but he was grateful for the respite.

While the doctor held his gun on the kidnapper, Sherlock picked the lock on the cuffs holding the man to the heavy machinery.

"John, shall we escort our guide to the car?" the detective asked and received a brief nod in return. As the trio walked by the fake bomb, Sherlock retrieved the dropped syringe. It might come in handy later on.

At the car the detective opened the passenger side door and John shoved the kidnapper none-too-gently into the seat. The doctor kept the gun trained on the man as Sherlock fastened the loose cuff to one of the metal supports under the seat.

With occasional reminders of the gun that was trained on him, the kidnapper led them to a residential area. Sherlock drove passed the indicated house and drove several blocks then around the corner before pulling over.

John fidgeted slightly. "So now we wait for Greg?"

Sherlock nodded, then he let himself slump against the car door. Every bit of the strain that he was under was plain to read in his profile and on his face. After a moment he let the window down. "I need some air." He waited a bit, then opened the door and made a show of breathing laboriously.

"Sherlock? Are you okay?" The doctor's voice was full of concern.

Sherlock stepped out of the car and let his knees start to buckle even as he reached his left hand into his pocket. John climbed out of the car and went to the detective's side. As quick as he reached out to help his friend, Sherlock had cuffed him to the open frame of the car door's window. He stepped nimbly out of John's reach as the doctor started spewing invective.

"God dammit, Sherlock! No! You are not fucking..."

The detective tuned John's words out. He took the syringe and his mobile from his pocket and lay them on the pathway, cautiously staying just beyond John's reach. "For when Greg gets here. You may need it when you come after me." With that, Sherlock ran back towards Walsh's house. He slowed to a walk and approached with his hands held up and out to his sides.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise in advance for this chapter. I am so in trouble with my beta for this, but I followed where my muse led.
> 
> Trigger warning for forced drug use.

Sherlock growled low in his throat as Moriarty danced around him.

"Your pet's unhappy with you, Shezza. You ran off and left him again." Moriarty clapped his hands, a gesture that was growing increasingly irritating to the detective. "Do you think he'll put up with that much longer?"

Hands still held in the air, Sherlock turned his head to glare at the vision. Just as he was about to make a sharp retort, the door to the house opened and two men came out. They were wielding guns which were trained directly on the detective.

Sherlock transferred his gaze to the two men, forcing himself to ignore Moriarty's taunting. "It took you long enough. I've been trying to surrender for several minutes."

One of the men, the blond, gestured to his companion. "Search him."

Sherlock stood perfectly still. He ignored the man's hands as they ran over him from shoulder to ankle, but when the man pulled back and leered at him, it was all he could do not to spit in his face. Sherlock was struggling to maintain his self control in the face unrelenting fury. The hand that groped his crotch made him snap and he slammed his forehead against the other man's skull, sending him reeling. He would have kicked the man for good measure, but the blond had moved fast and had rested the barrel of the gun against the base of Sherlock's neck.

"That's enough!" the blond growled. "Link, get the cuffs on him."

Link got to his feet, hand rubbing where Sherlock had head butted him. His face was full of rage. He pulled Sherlock's arms behind him one at a time and cuffed them, then he punched the detective just over the kidney. "I'm going to ask for whatever's left of you when Walsh is done."

Sherlock ignored the pain as best he could and bit off the spiteful words that came to mind. This was just the beginning and he knew it would get worse before help would arrive. Despite what Moriarty had said, Sherlock hadn't left John behind, not like the vision had meant. Sherlock knew that he had to get inside and provide a distraction for Greg and John to use to their advantage. Nothing else had a chance of working.

Link took him roughly by the arm and guided him into the house. As they stepped into the room where Mycroft was being held, the brothers' eyes met.

"So glad you could join us, brother dear," Mycroft said through split lips. "I was beginning to wonder if you would come."

The detective was shoved down into a chair. "I wouldn't miss this for anything, Mycroft. Have you been having fun without me?" Sherlock's demeanour might have been one of bravado, but inside, he cringed. Mycroft didn't look good, he had obviously been beaten and quite thoroughly. Sherlock's fury redoubled. He'd kill Walsh.

The man himself had watched their greeting with curiosity. "Welcome, Sherlock. Your brother and I have been talking about you. Well, I've been talking. Mycroft's been glaring. He's quite good at it."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, "but it's not his glare that will kill you." He grinned, showing all his teeth. "I will."

"About that, I don't think so," Walsh countered. "Moriarty taught me well. I plan on breaking Mycroft before I kill him. Now that's where you come in." He reached and opened the top drawer of his desk. The vial and syringe he set out gleamed in the light, drawing Sherlock's attention. "You see, I know Mycroft's greatest fear."

The elder Holmes could feel his heart racing in his chest. It was beating so hard, he thought it might burst. "Walsh," he said, his tone cold. "You don't know a thing about me." He kept his eyes locked on his rival and determinedly off of Sherlock. He didn't let himself glance at the hated objects on the man's desk.

Moriarty had settled on the arm of Sherlock's chair. "Well," he drawled. "It looks like the end of your sobriety is near. It's rather fitting, don't you think? Poetic, even. The great Sherlock Holmes finally resolves to get clean, and he goes out on an overdose. Can I come with you? I'll sign you a lullaby as you go."

"Shut up!" Sherlock tried to lunge from the chair, but two strong hands held him in place. For Sherlock's troubles, the man standing watch over Mycroft hit the government official hard in the back of the head with the butt of his gun. The detective forced himself to relax for his brother's sake.

With only a gesture from Walsh, Link pulled back the sleeve of Sherlock's coat and jacket. He unbuttoned the detective's sleeve and exposed his arm. Reaching over, Link took the syringe that Walsh had filled from the vial and injected it smoothly into Sherlock's waiting vein.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I debated whether I should leave this note, doing so cuts out some of the suspense, but decided I had to, having suffered a miscarriage myself in the past. It is something that I simply cannot write, so there is no need to fear for Mary or the baby.

Sherlock felt the cocaine hit his bloodstream. For the first time in his life, he resented the drug, no hated it, even as the first euphoric high swept over him. His heart rate increased and he could feel his thoughts speeding up, but he didn't feel the horrible constriction in his chest that he had expected. The dosage that he had been given was far less than needed for an overdose. That was at least a small break. It meant there was still time for John and Greg to act. Also, while Moriarty still hovered, he was blessedly silent and far easier to ignore.

His heart aching, Mycroft looked on. He watched every nuance of expression as it played out over Sherlock's face. His brother started shifting restlessly where he sat, though rough hands held him in the chair.

Walsh cleared his throat as he deliberately placed more vials on his desktop. "Shall we let him enjoy the high for a bit before we mix things up and push him a little harder? How much do you think he can take before his heart gives out on him?"

"Don't!" Mycroft couldn't stop himself from pleading, not where his brother's life was concerned. "Please. You don't have to kill him. Hurt me instead."

"Be quiet, Mycroft," Sherlock spat. "You're giving him just what he wants."

"Silence him," Walsh ordered, pointing towards the younger Holmes.

Link grinned and punched Sherlock in the face.

The detective slowly turned back to look at him. "Come, now. Is that the best that you've got?"

"Brother-mine, do shut up," Mycroft pleaded. "Don't make this any worse than it already is."

Sherlock laughed, forcing himself to sound bitter. A feat that wasn't very difficult at the moment. "How could it be worse, Mycroft?" He looked at his brother pointedly. "Maybe if John and Greg were here to watch. Wouldn't that make a lovely..." His head reeled as Link struck him again.

Another of the henchmen took off his tie and used it as a makeshift gag, putting an end to the detective's talking. It didn't matter, Sherlock could see that his message had been understood.

Knowing that someone was aware of their predicament and would try to rescue them gave Mycroft a small glimpse of hope. It was tinged with dread, knowing how unlikely a rescue attempt would be to succeed. If they just got there in time to save Sherlock, that was all that mattered.

* * *

John, his frustration mounting, hit the roof of the car. "Come on Greg," he growled to no one in particular. Ducking down, he glared at the man cuffed to the passenger seat. "How many people are in there?" His question was answered with silence. "Allow me to put it this way, when my friend arrives, I will get answers out of you one way or another. It's up to you if you're still alive when I'm done."

"You're his doctor friend. You won't kill me," the man said with bravado.

John grinned, showing all his teeth. "Yes, I'm a doctor, but I was also a soldier. Just you think about that."

Something on John's face made the man swallow and look away. He cleared his throat.

"There will be three of them."

"Just three?" John asked, incredulous.

The man scoffed. "Walsh doesn't trust many people."

The doctor nodded once. "Alright. Tell me what I need to know to get my friend out of there alive." When the man hesitated, John lunged towards him, stopped in his advance by the handcuff holding him to the doorframe. "I can and will break every bone in your body, if I have to."

The man went pale, not doubting the doctor for a moment. He began to talk.

* * *

Mary was relatively unscathed by the collision, much to her surprise, but the paramedics fussed over her due to her pregnancy. It was entirely unnecessary, she sought to assure them to no avail.

"Mrs. Watson, you took a blow to your head when the cars collided. You hit it against the window. I really must insist you go to hospital and get checked out." The female paramedic crossed her arms. "If not for you, then think of your baby."

Reluctantly, Mary agreed. "Fine, but the woman who was with me, she definitely has concession."

"And she's being reasonable about it. Look." The woman pointed to where Molly was being loaded into the back of an ambulance.

Mary stood, placing her hand to the small of her aching back. "I already told you I'd go to hospital. You don't have to..." There was a stronger twinge of pain where her hand rested and she felt the first stirrings of cramps. "Oh, God."

The paramedic was by her side in an instsant. "Mrs. Watson? Is it the baby?"

"Yes, get me to hospital now. I'm not due for five more weeks." She would not panic. Mary was a nurse, she knew that, though early, five weeks premature wasn't an automatic death sentence for a baby, but what if something had gone wrong? She wanted to call John so very badly, she needed him there, but she daren't lest she put him in danger. Mary let herself be helped onto a gurney and started praying to a God she hadn't believed in since she was a very young girl.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some non-consensual touching and very definite threats and intentions of more.

John jerked his cuffed hand unthinkingly as he shouted at Greg who was stepping out of a cab. "Get these fucking cuffs off of me!"

"God, tell me he didn't." The DI pulled his keys from his pocket and jammed them into the lock, releasing John.

"Of course he did. Ran off and left me. I swear, if we get him out of this alive, I'll kill him. Really, Greg. I will this time." John stooped and retrieved the syringe and Sherlock's mobile, stuffing them in his pocket.

Lestrade frowned. "What's in that."

"A fast acting tranquilliser. Did you manage to get hold of a gun?" John asked, already walking back towards the house where the Holmses were likely both being held by now.

Greg ran a hand through his silver hair with frustration. "No."

John handed the DI a Glock. "You can use this one."

Taking it, Greg checked it for ammo and verified that the safety was still on before shoving it into his waistband. "When did you acquire this? It's not your SIG."

"It belongs to him," the doctor answered with a jerk back towards the car and the man still cuffed there. He stopped walking as they neared the block where the house was located. "Right. We need a plan." John wiped one shaky hand across his eyes. "The asshole back there said there would only be three of them in there, but we can't trust that. He could be lying or just uninformed." He paced back and forth a few times, reminding the DI of Sherlock. "He went in there for a reason, Greg. He was unarmed, so..." John stopped his pacing. "He's planning on creating a diversion." We need to get as close as we can without being detected."

"It will be getting dark soon. Do we dare wait until then?" Greg's expression was grim as he waited for John's response.

The doctor swore. "That was probably his plan - give you time to get here and let dusk fall."

"Then that's what we'll do."

* * *

Sherlock's mind didn't feel sluggish anymore and he could see everything so clearly, for that much, he was grateful. Walsh was easy to read - he was ambitious, had a strong need for control, delighted in the misery of others and... Oh! Alex enjoyed sexually debasing his partners as well as his victims. For now, the man was taking a good deal of sadistic pleasure in causing Mycroft mental distress and he would want to stretch it out as long as possible, but that would never be enough to satisfy him. Sherlock would have to steal his attention for himself to spare his brother and it would make for an excellent diversion.

It was difficult to ignore his body - he couldn't bear to sit still any longer, the cocaine made him want to pace, to run, anything but stay in one place. Sherlock could feel a thin sheen of sweat breaking out on him despite how cold the room felt. He tried to rub against the chair and knock the Belstaff from his shoulder. Maybe then, he could focus on Walsh again.

"You seem to be having a bit of trouble there." Alex stood and walked over to him. He reached out and pulled Sherlock's coat back, opening it down the front. He tutted. "And look at this pretty shirt, all drenched with sweat." Walsh leaned forward and sniffed at the detective's neck. "It smells lovely."

Sherlock let his eyes open wide in mock distress, hoping to entice the man and draw his attention completely off of his brother. It worked.

Walsh shoved Sherlock back against the cushions, pinning the detective's cuffed arms behind him and causing his shoulders to screech in pain. He grabbed the front of Sherlock's shirt and pulled, sending buttons flying in every direction. Walsh's lips parted and his tongue darted out, wetting them. "You're prettier than your brother." He ran fingers over his prisoner's lips which were wrapped around the tie that was being used as a makeshift gag.

Sherlock jerked his head to the side, not liking the feel of Alex's fingers touching him. The cocaine seemed to amplify the sensation hatefully. Without meaning to, the detective growled low in his throat. That just goaded Walsh on.

Walsh bent and closed his mouth on Sherlock's neck, sucking lightly for a moment, then biting down hard. The detective jerked, trying to get away, but his assailant didn't relent, just bit down all the harder.

Sherlock wasn't thinking anymore, just reacting. The harder he fought, the more Walsh seemed to like it.

"Put him on the desk," Alex ordered as he stepped back. He looked over at Mycroft who was being held down, a gun now pressed to his temple to keep him from moving. "I'm going to fuck you baby brother before I dose him again. In fact, I'll even let my boys have a go. Maybe the added stress will make his heart stop."

"Tell me," Mycroft ordered coldly, "Where would you like you're body parts to be delivered?"

Walsh laughed. "Oh, Mycroft. That's no concern of yours. Neither of you will live long enough to see me dead."

Struggling all the while, Sherlock was torn from the chair and thrown face down on the desk. At least Moriarty had fallen silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In RL, my mother fell and broke her leg in three places, had her gallbladder out and her dementia has worsened. All in less than a week. For some reason, I didn't get to write very much. Well, one day at a time.


	22. Chapter 22

Sherlock turned his head to the side as he struggled. The cool surface of the desk against his cheek brought back his clarity of thought. He checked the time inside his Mind Palace. The cocaine might have made his thoughts and body race, but his internal clock was far too well calibrated to be affected. John and Greg should be arriving at any moment, now. He simply had to buy them time.

The struggle Sherlock put up was just enough to keep Walsh from getting what he wanted, though he daren't fight him too hard, lest he bring down retribution on Mycroft. Thankfully, the detective heard a sound from the direction of the closed door. How the other idiots could have missed it, he didn't understand.

Sherlock met Mycroft's eyes and his brother understood. The government official threw himself forward onto the floor and rolled to the side just as the office door crashed in.

Link, who had been holding his gun on Mycroft, whirled around, his gun coming to point towards the door. Before he could get a shot off, a single bullet pierced his forehead and he dropped heavily to the floor, barely missing Mycroft.

At the same time, the blond man who had been holding Sherlock's shoulders against the desk let go and reached around to draw his own gun. John didn't hesitate. He shifted his aim and shot the man through the heart.

Greg had dove under John's arm and had Walsh around the waist, trying to pull him off Sherlock. The detective reared back, smashing his head into Walsh's nose. As he lurched away in pain, John jabbed the needle of the syringe he had been carrying into him and depressed the plunger. Walsh fought on a bit longer, but eventually he succumbed to whatever had been in the syringe and collapsed.

Greg left John to help Sherlock in favour of checking on Mycroft. The government official had managed to sit up and was trying to stand - a difficult process with his arms bound behind his back.

"Here, let me," the DI said as he started working at the leather belt binding Mycroft's arms behind him.

"How's Sherlock?" Mycroft asked worriedly. "They injected him with cocaine."

Sherlock was sitting up on the desk. John had already noticed that something was wrong. His mouth thinned into a white line as he took the detective's pulse. It was fast, but not alarmingly so. "Greg, would you hand me your keys?" The DI tossed them to him and freed Sherlock's wrists.

Large hands grasped John by the shoulders and silver-grey eyes locked with his. "I didn't take it, John. I swear I didn't. I didn't even want it, my brain did, but I didn't. Please-"

The doctor raised his hand and gently covered Sherlock's mouth. "I know. I believe you."

His inhibitions lowered by the cocaine, he pulled John into an embrace and dropped his head on his shoulder. "I can't lose you," Sherlock whispered into John's neck.

The doctor didn't know what to do, but he knew one thing. "You're not going to lose me, no matter what."

"John," Greg called sounding urgent. "Can you take a look at Mycroft? They weren't very gentle with him."

As John approached, the elder Holmes brother waved them both off, holding his hand out to Greg. "Might I borrow your phone?" Shrugging, the DI handed it to him. "Anthea, track this phone. Contingency plan Walters is go. Get our most trusted security detail here immediately and have them bring medical supplies. Oh, and prepare the special holding cell, the one only I can access." He looked at Walsh. "We'll be needing it." He rang off. "She'll call off the police, as well. All we need do is sit tight." Sherlock started shivering and Mycroft noticed. He drew back his foot and kicked Walsh, then regained control of himself. "Poor form, I know, kicking an unconscious man. Forgive me."

Moriarty was looking at Sherlock with mock pity in his eyes. "Of course, Johnny Boy will be calling his wife soon. He'll forget all about you."

Sherlock shouted at thin air, "Shut up. You can't be here. I'm high, and it was just cocaine not the rest. Go away!"

John moved back to the detective's side. "Sherlock. Sherlock!" The detective looked at him and John took his hand. "Tell him to piss off."

Sherlock turned to do just that, but the hated phantasm had already fled. He held onto John's hand even more tightly. "He's right, though. You do need to call Mary. She needs to know you're safe."

"She needs to know _we're_ safe," John corrected him, then he pulled out his phone.

As John dialled his wife, Sherlock looked over at his brother. "Mycroft." He paused unsure how to express what he was feeling. "I'm not entirely unpleased that you're alive."

Mycroft wanted nothing more than to hug his brother, but instead replied, "Likewise, I'm not entirely unpleased that you're alive, baby brother."

It wasn't enough. The detective held out a shaky hand in silent entreaty. Mycroft took it and found himself being pulled into a fierce hug.

Sherlock's voice was as shaky as his hand. "I'm sorry for all those times I scared you. It's wasn't... pleasant, fearing for your life."

Mycroft let his eyes close and simply held his brother. "Now you understand."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for your kind words and thoughts for my mother. She is having surgery tomorrow to put pins in her leg. Hopefully, she'll be on the road to recovery.


	23. Chapter 23

Sherlock broke away from Mycroft at the sound of distress in John's voice and looked the doctor with concern.

"Where, Molly?!" John had started pacing the room like a caged animal. He kept looking towards the door to the office like he would bolt. "I'll get there as fast as I can. You can't leave. Call me if anything changes." He rang off and stopped his pacing, looking down at the phone in his hand. "Damn!" John kicked at the chair he had stopped by.

The high Sherlock had felt was ebbing and he could feel a black mood closing in around him. He pushed back against it with all his might, using the full force of his love of and concern for John to keep it at bay. "Mary..."

"Has gone into labour," the doctor finished for him. His left hand formed a fist. He couldn't drive, neither could Sherlock, not in his current state. Mycroft's presence was required here. Greg... No, Greg was needed to watch over the brothers until medical help arrived. The chair suffered another kick. "How long until your people get here, Mycroft?"

The government official looked at him as he rubbed at the bump on his head. "Less than five minutes. I'll have one of my men take you to hospital, of course." He looked meaningfully at Sherlock.

John's eyes followed his. He stepped forward and took the detective by the shoulders, looking him in the eyes. "Go with Mycroft. Do what has to be done, then come to hospital. I need you there with me. Promise me."

Sherlock felt completely conflicted, unsure if he was being rejected or not. Coming down from his recent high didn't help him understand in the least, but the pain in John's eyes spoke to him. "I promise. I'll come."

* * *

John burst onto the maternity ward and went straight to the nurses' desk. "I'm John Watson. My wife..."

"John!" Molly called out as she rushed to him and hugged him. "She's right this way. I was just about to call. You're a father and, oh, John! She's beautiful!"

"I'm a father? She's okay? They're both okay?" He looked, sounded, and _was_ completely stunned.

"Yes." Molly hugged him again and pulled on his arm, urging him along. She waved at the nurses behind the desk who smiled back at her.

At the door to Mary's room, Molly gave him a kiss on the cheek. "Now that you're here. I'm going to go. You two need time alone with your daughter."

John started to push the door open, but paused. "Thank you, Molly." He turned back and stepped into the room.

Mary looked up from studying the face of their daughter to see who was entering. Her face lit up. "John," she said holding out a hand in his direction. "Come look at her. She's perfect. They said she won't even have to stay in hospital longer than normal."

Placing his hand on his daughter's head, he bent and kissed Mary. "I was so afraid for you both."

"I know." The new mother lifted the baby girl in her arms. "You can hold her, you know. She won't break."

"I've held babies before." John took her in his arms. "Are we still going to call her Nadyia Ailis?"

"Hope and honesty? I think so." Mary smiled at her husband and daughter. Hope and honesty were two things she wanted to give them in the future. **Honesty.** It was time for that. "John?"

"Hm?" He glanced at her, then looked at her more seriously. "What's wrong?"

Mary let her head fall back against the pillow and her eyes fall shut. "I know you love Sherlock. I'm not angry about it. I'm not angry with either of you." She opened sad eyes and looked at John. "You can't help who you love."

The doctor looked at his wife, completely blindsided. "Does anyone ever actually listen to me? I'm not gay. Really, actually, not gay."

"But you love him." John started to speak, but she held up her hand. "You need to figure out what you're going to do. I'm not giving you an ultimatum. It's just... Sherlock's so fragile right now. This whole thing isn't fair to him."

"I'm not going to leave you and Ailis," he reassured her.

"And Sherlock? You can't leave him either." Mary looked at him sympathetically. "That wouldn't be fair to either of you."

John kissed his daughter, not wanting to think about the whole mess, but he had to. "Then what do you suggest?"

"You need to commit to spending time with him. Two or three days a week. Maybe even sleep over sometimes and just do the things you've always done together."

"But you'll need me with the baby."

Mary laughed. "We'll be just fine without you a few nights. I promise, John."

"Maybe." He sat on the edge of the bed and lay Ailis between them. "I'll think about it."

"And, John." Mary looked at him seriously. "Think about just how much of yourself you can give him."


	24. Chapter 24

Mary had fallen asleep, so it was just John and Ailis. He held her in his arms and smiled down at her. "Your mother has had a busy day, she's tired." He looked over at his wife. At least it had been a quick labour, not even four hours. He frowned. That was unusual in a first pregnancy, unless... John thought of how Mary had looked at their little girl, it had been full of love and... a sense of redemption? For the first time, John pondered what had happened before his wife had become an assassin. How had she been hurt to make her into what she had become? John shivered. "We won't ask her that, will we Ailis? No."

He ran a finger lightly over one of his daughter’s lightly fuzzed eyebrows. "What makes any of us who we are? Your mum, me, Sherlock. Now there's a problem. What do I do about him?" John kissed Ailis on the forehead. "I think you'll like him. He's a bit mad and he's messed up like the rest of us. I hope you don't hold that against us, how messed up we are. We still love you and we'll do our best by you." He let out a sigh and stared at his daughter, smiling wistfully.

Ailis hit herself with her tiny fist. John caught it in his hand and kissed it. "About Sherlock... Your mum seems to think dinner and tea a few times a week will fix everything. I don't know, what do you think?" John watched as his little girl yawned. "Right. It's no good. Maybe I'm going about this all wrong. Your mum said I should decide what I'm willing to give him, but I don't even know what I want, for him, for all of us to be happy, I suppose. I want you and Mummy and quiet nights at home, but I want mad chases across London. I want to take care of the mad git and make sure he eats, make sure he sleeps. I want to be there when he makes that little 'oh' sound when the pieces of a case fall together. I don't want to spend my days at the clinic, tending to mundane illnesses. Jesus!" John jiggled Ailis in his arms, soothing her. "I just want to bloody giggle at a crime scene, over the damned corpse, even." He sighed again. "I think I know what your mum wants, a second chance, to love and be loved. I can do that. Here's the question, sweetie, what does Sherlock want? If I knew that..." Ailis looked at John with an oddly serious expression for a newborn. "What? You think I should ask him, don't you? I suppose you're right. It's an error to reach a conclusion without all the facts or something like that." The new father kissed his daughter again. "Alright. I'll ask him."

* * *

Greg drove towards the hospital, stealing glances sideways at his silent companion. Sherlock looked drawn and his eyes were red rimmed. The DI hated seeing him like this, it reminded him of other days long since passed.

"You don't have to do this, you know," Greg offered into the silence. "Go see the baby, I mean."

"You think I shouldn't see John." Sherlock turned his head to look out the window. "I promised him I would come, so I will. It's that simple."

The shade of Moriarty was there in the back seat behind Sherlock. "Is it really that simple?"

The detective ignored him.

The DI sighed. "It's not that I think you shouldn't see him... I hate to see you in pain."

"I'm fine."

"Bollocks!" Greg hit the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. "You're anything but fine. You're in worse shape than you were back then."

Sherlock's expression didn't change. "Your concern is appreciated, but not needed."

Moriarty shook his head. "My, my. That was almost civil of you, Shezza. You're slipping."

"Right." They travelled in silence for a while before Greg tried another tactic. "Of course, Mycroft will want you to stay with him. I imagine he'll demand either that or rehab."

"Mycroft can mind his own business," Sherlock snarled. "Just because I don't want him dead, doesn't mean I'll put up with his interference."

"As if you could stop him," Jim scoffed.

"Sherlock," the DI glanced over at him, "I'm making you the same offer I did back then. If you want, you can stay with me until you get through the worst of the withdrawal. We did it before, we can do it again. Unless... are you addicted to more than the cocaine? I can handle the mental withdrawal, but if you're on something that causes physical withdrawal..."

"I'm not." Sherlock turned his head to look at Greg and saw a doubting look on his face. "Ah. You heard about the airplane. That was... that was something different. I don't use those drugs normally. Only the cocaine is an... addiction."

"Alright, then." Greg nodded to himself. "So, what do you say?"

The detective struggled not to turn around and shout when Moriarty taunted, "Aren't you going to answer the man?"

Sherlock was quiet for several minutes as he thought about everything, about his friends, Mycroft, John. He thought about how he crashed through their lives like a destructive force. It had to stop. "Yes, thank you, Greg. Your offer is more than acceptable."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta asked, "You're not ending it this way?!"
> 
> No. Just, no.


	25. Chapter 25

Greg and Sherlock walked down the corridor of the maternity ward, the younger man trailing slightly behind. The detective wished desperately to not be there, to be anywhere else. He also wanted Moriarty to fade away, but that wouldn’t happen for days yet.

Knocking on the door to Mary’s room, the DI announced them, “Hiya, it’s Greg and Sherlock. Is it safe for us to come in?”

John called out, “Sure.”

Pushing the door open, Greg paused and looked a question back at his friend. Sherlock nodded and they entered the room.

The moment his eyes fell on Ailis, the DI’s smile turned from artificial to genuine. He couldn’t help himself. “So is this the youngest Watson, then?” He stepped closer to get a better look. “She’s beautiful.”

“We think so,” Mary agreed. “Would you like to hold her?”

Greg held out his arms and took the baby girl. “It’s been a while since I held a baby,” he told the infant. “What’s your name?”

“Nadyia Ailis,” John supplied.

Moriarty scoffed. “ _Hope and honesty_ , that’s a bit hypocritical, don’t you think?”

“Shut up,” Sherlock hissed quietly, but the doctor noticed.

John stood and walked around the bed, placing a hand on the detective’s arm. He smiled at Sherlock, leaned close and whispered, “The bastard can just bugger off. He’s not welcome here.”

The smile the detective returned was strained, at best. He tried to distract himself from his thoughts by looking at Ailis, really looking. She was beautiful. She had Mary’s nose, but John’s mouth and she definitely had his eyes. They were still a baby sort of blue, but Sherlock was certain that when their colour settled, they would be the doctor’s brilliant blue. Much to his surprise, Sherlock decided he could come to love this baby girl. He swallowed hard, trying to hold back tears of confusion and frustration.

“Greg,” Mary spoke up, “John hasn’t eaten anything since early this morning, but I can’t get him to leave me alone for even a few minutes. Would you mind staying with me while Sherlock drags him to the cafeteria for some food?”

The DI looked from Ailis to John, “I wouldn’t mind at all. It means more time to visit with two lovely ladies, doesn’t it Ailis?”

“Thanks, Greg,” the doctor said as he tugged Sherlock towards the door. ‘It’s been… yeah, I don’t remember the last time I saw food.” As the door to Mary’s room closed behind them, John took a deep breath, trying to relax. He led the way down the corridor.

“You don’t want food,” Sherlock observed, holding tight to John’s hand. “Is this just some excuse to talk?”

“Yep,” John agreed readily. “We need to, don’t you think?”

The detective snorted. “I don’t see why. It’s not going to help the situation.”

They fell silent as they waited for the lift. The conversation didn’t resume until they found a table in a quiet corner of the cafeteria.

“I’ve been thinking,” John began, “a lot. I think I’ve finally figure out what I want, but it occurred to me that I don’t know what _you_ want, for us, I mean.”

Sherlock looked down at where the doctor’s hand was holding his own. “What I want, John, is everything. I want all of you every moment of every day for as long as we both live.” He looked up, seeing the distress on John’s face. “But I couldn’t have that, even if you weren’t married to Mary and didn’t have Ailis. People weren’t meant to live that way. You have to have your own life as you did even when you lived at Baker Street.”

“I… don’t know what to say.” The doctor felt as if he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t do this, keep Sherlock for himself. “You deserve someone who can give you more than I can.” John’s voice cracked. “Someone who can be what you need in every way.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock said scathingly. “I don’t want anyone else. I don’t… You’re thinking of _sex_ , aren’t you? I assure you, John, if I were to consider indulging in sex, it would be with you and no one else, but this,” he gestured at himself, “is just transport. I don’t require it. I require you.”

John couldn’t be arsed to blush, he wasn’t embarrassed, he was annoyed. “It’s not just about sex, Sherlock. You deserve someone who can be there for you.”

“You are,” the detective declared.

“I want to be.” John held onto Sherlock’s hand tightly. “I wish… I hate working at the clinic. It’s not the type of medicine I trained for.” He snuck a peek at Sherlock’s face. “Yes, I know, I always said I liked it, but,” The doctor shrugged. “It was just a way to hold on to my own identity and not make everything about you.”

“Then quit. Spend your days with me,” Sherlock leaned forward and gazed at him with intensity. “We could be partners. We’ll take more paying cases and split the income.” He waited a moment, then added, “Please.”

John bit his lip. “I… You hate those cases. They’re boring.” He shook his head. “But there’s something… Mary has a numbered account. She was going to donate the money to something, didn’t think I’d want to touch it, but maybe…” John looked into Sherlock’s eyes. “What do you think? Would it be horrible if she and I used it? If it helps me help you with The Work, wouldn’t that make it okay?”

It was Sherlock’s turn to shake his head. “You would never be able to live with yourself. Try it my way first, John. Please.”

“I… okay. And we’ll see where things go.” The doctor bit his lip. “So, what now?”

“Now, I spend the next couple of weeks with Greg,” Sherlock supplied. “I can’t be around Ailis until the hallucinations stop. Not to mention, I’ll be extremely unpleasant.”

“That wasn’t what I meant. Fuck that fucker Walsh for starting the whole thing over! Can I… Will it be okay if I visit you?”

“It would be… good, but won't Mary mind?"

The doctor hesitated, not certain how Sherlock would take his answer. "As long as she knows I love her, we'll be good. If you can live with that... God, I'm such an arse." He covered his eyes with his free hand.

"No, you're not." The detective ran his thumb along the back of John's hand. "You're not."

"Just... I love you, too, in my own messed up way," John whispered.

Sherlock nodded. "I know."

They were quiet for a long while as John fiddled with Sherlock’s fingers. “You know, we haven’t solved anything, not really.” He sounded incredibly sad.

“I know,” Sherlock agreed. “But this isn’t the time to demand solutions. This is a time for survival.”

The doctor nodded. “You’re right of course.” He gave Sherlock’s hand a squeeze and hoped they all did just that: survived.


	26. Chapter 26

Survival, Sherlock though bitterly, wasn’t enough. He rolled over in the early morning gloom, the duvet wrapped tightly around him. Moriarty lay there in the bed with him, smiling maniacally.

“How does it feel, Shezza, being abandoned?" the shade teased.

Sherlock rolled back over, facing the other direction. “I wasn’t abandoned.”

Moriarty appeared in front of him again. “Weren’t you? Despite what he says, you’re losing him. Johnny Boy has a wife and a baby girl. You can’t compete with that.” He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling. “This whole partnership thing will never work. You’ll get bored with the petty cases, you’ll be cruel and say things you don’t mean. You’ll say things you do mean, but don’t want him to know. How long will John put up with it?”

Flinging himself off the bed, the detective stalked from the room. It was unbearable, this feeling, Moriarty's rantings, his own troubled thoughts. Only one thing could help.

Sherlock realised he was headed towards the front door and stopped himself. He refused to give in to the craving, he'd come too far. Why did he keep having to make the same decision over and over again? The detective backtracked, stopping at the door to Lestrade's room. He hesitated, then knocked.

"Your pet DI won't be able to help you," Moriarty opined. "When has he ever?"

Sherlock fisted his hands in the duvet that was still wrapped around him. "Lestrade is a friend," he hissed.

Moriarty tutted. "Only as long as you are of use to him."

Of all Moriarty's taunts, this one fell short. Perhaps Sherlock had believed that once, but no more. He shrugged it off with little effort.

Greg opened his door, yawning and scratching at his hair. "It's been one of those nights, has it?" The DI didn't wait for an answer. "Come on, lets get something to eat." He stepped around Sherlock and led the way to the kitchen. "You still hearing him?"

Sherlock nodded. He had told Lestrade about his hallucinations of necessity. "He's been particularly annoying." And, the detective thought, maybe Moriarty was right.

"Of course, I'm right. I'm you," the shade whispered. "And we shouldn't expect to be loved, you and I. We only deserve the scraps from the table."

Suddenly, Sherlock felt angry. No, he deserved more. Even John had said so, acknowledging that it wasn't fair, what he was doing to him, leading him along and doling out little dribs and drabs of affection.

The detective roared out his anger and frustration, startling Greg. He was done, so done with trying to be the good guy. He wasn't good, he was selfish, and he had had enough. "I don't want to see him."

Greg turned and looked at his friend, understanding washing over him. "Ah. John, you mean."

"Yes."

"For how long?" the DI asked, keeping his tone casual.

"Just tell him to stay away. I can't see him. Not now, not ever." Sherlock's tone brooked no argument.

"Are you sure this is the best ti..."

The detective looked Greg directly in the eyes. "He's killing me, Greg. He doesn't mean to, but he is. John's... He's as bad for me as the cocaine. Worse, maybe. Do you see?"

Lestrade sighed. He couldn't argue with his friend no matter how much he might wish he could. "I'll let him know."

Moriarty smiled and didn't say another word.

* * *

John scoffed. "Greg, he can't mean that he doesn't want to see me ever. That's the withdrawal talking. It's that fucking Moriarty hallucination."

"Is it?" the DI asked. "John, I... I like to think I'm your friend. Have you considered what you're doing to him?"

Looking down at his hands, the doctor nodded. "Of course I have."

"He says you're killing him," Greg stated bluntly. "That you're worse than the cocaine."

His words fell on John with full force, causing the doctor to crumble beneath their weight.

"Oh, God." John hunched over the table, not caring what the other pub patrons might think. When he spoke next, he could barely get the words out. "Am I? God, I am. Oh, Christ." He was shaking uncontrolably. "I've lost him." He looked at Greg with pleading eyes. "What do I do, Greg?"

Lestrade took a drink and set his glass carefully down on the table, unsurprised by John's reaction. "I'm not good at this shite. If I were, I wouldn't be divorced." He took a deep breath. "You stay with Mary and let him go, John, or you go after him."

The doctor frowned. "Go after him?"

"Yes, but if you do, you can't do it halfway. It's all or nothing." Lestrade waited. "It's time to make up your mind." He stood and looked at John. "I'm sorry it's so hard, mate, but it's worse for him, for both of them."

"I know," John acknowledged miserably. "Thanks, Greg. I have a lot of thinking to do. Take care of him for me."

The DI nodded and left John to his thoughts.


	27. Chapter 27

The moment John stepped through the door, Mary knew something had gone terribly wrong. "Sherlock... Something's happened."

The doctor walked by her, his limp in strong evidence. Throwing himself down in his chair, John looked at his wife. Mary. The woman he loved. The woman who'd shot Sherlock. The woman he was still learning to trust again. The mother of his child. "He doesn't want to see me again." John kept going, just to hear it, to hurt himself. "Apparently I'm worse than cocaine... so..."

Mary stood, frozen in place and her heart ached for herself, for Sherlock, but most of all for John. If she hadn't pulled that trigger all those months ago, maybe they wouldn't be here, things might have played out differently, but she had. She had. Mary's mouth opened, and words she had been contemplating for some time came out. "I want a divorce."

John's left hand started shaking, now he was losing Mary, too. "Why?" His question came out broken and tears welled in his eyes.

"Oh, John." Mary shook her head sadly. "I'm not angry, I'm sad." She walked over, sat in the chair next to his and took his shaking hand between hers. "And, despite what I'm going to say, I'm anything but noble."

"And what are you going to say?" John asked in a whisper.

"If we get a divorce now, we can come out of this as friends. We can be partners in raising Ailis. That's more than I could ever have hoped. The way you looked at me when you learned the truth... I thought, at best, I had until the baby was born, then Mycroft would arrange a convenient accident, but you surprised me. You gave me a second chance even though I had nearly killed someone you love. If you stay with me now and loose Sherlock..." Mary shook her head. "It won't take long for you to start looking at me like you did that night. Worse, I'll be the person who took him away from you." She gave a sad, self-deprecating smile. "See, not noble, selfish."

"People are idiots." John returned her smile, but it was pained. "Everyone asks how I can put up with Sherlock and his lack of moral compass. They think he's the corrupt one and I'm some sort of saint." He laughed bitterly. "I'm the one that's fucked up. You tell me you want a divorce and what do I feel? Relief, because I don't have to make the hard decision. You've made it for me. Jesus, but I'm the worst kind of ingrate."

Mary pressed a finger to John's lips. "Hush."

"It's not that easy, is it? I need to quit whinging and we need to talk."

"Not now. I'm not going anywhere. Ailis and I will be fine. Sherlock... I don't know if he will be. So... you still have a decision to make. About Sherlock."

* * *

The next morning, John paced the pathway, incredibly nervous. In fact, he felt physically ill. Spotting a nearby bench, he sat to give himself time to calm down. The talk with Mary had been hard, but he had acknowledged that she was right. He would have reached the same conclusion himself, eventually.

Yes, trying to imagine a life without Mary made John sad, but trying to imagine a life without Sherlock hurt too much to bear. He couldn't do it. In fact, the doctor hated himself for having wasted so much time trying to live a normal life. His life hadn't been normal since the moment he'd met Sherlock.

John looked down the street towards Greg's place. It felt like an eternity since he had talked to Lestrade and he had no reason to think that Sherlock had changed his mind about seeing him. Invading Afghanistan had been easier than this. Talking to Mary had been easier than this. John stood and walked the short distance separating him from Greg's.

The doctor knocked on the DI's door and waited. He had no idea what sort of mood Sherlock would be in or how he would be received. John gave a little start when Sherlock opened the door. "Hi." He searched his friend’s face for a clue as to what he was feeling.

Sherlock opened the door hesitantly. "You're not welcome here."

"I know. Just give me fifteen minutes, then, if you want me to, I'll leave."

After several tense moments, Sherlock gestured the doctor inside.

It hit John like a punch to the gut: he wanted to touch his friend. He wanted to sit with him and hold him and he wasn't certain what else. Time would tell... if Sherlock gave it to him.

"John…" Sherlock began, but cut off when the doctor met his eyes. He couldn’t decipher what John was thinking behind his steady gaze.

"I haven’t slept."

"Of course not. You have a newborn in the house. I understand they wake up every two hours to eat."

"That’s not what I meant," John countered. "Though, yeah, being up with Ailis at two in the morning has given me time to think." He braced himself and said the words he had come to say, part of them, anyway, "I love you."

"Nice," Sherlock replied, his look and tone uncertain, "but nothing has changed. We’re friends, we were friends, nothing more. We…" He cut off as John impulsively kissed him. It was a tentative kiss, testing, probing, unsure. They broke apart. "What was that" the detective asked, bemused.

"I. Love. You." John repeated. "I wanted to see… I wanted to kiss you. Is that okay?"

"No." Sherlock turned and stormed across the room. "It’s not okay. You belong to Mary. I can’t have you. It’s not okay."

The doctor followed his friend across the room and stopped, standing just behind him. "I do love Mary, but I finally figured out that I don’t love her like I used to. I don’t love her like I love you. Honestly, I don’t think I ever did."

"I don’t understand," Sherlock said, his voice trembling. He felt wrung out. His life had become a nightmare. His feelings were all over the place. He wanted cocaine. He wanted John. This, this was too much. If John offered this, then took it away… "What are you telling me, John?"

"I’m telling you that I’ve been an idiot. I’ve been holding onto something that was never what I thought it was. I’ve been hurting Mary and at the same time, I’ve more than hurt you, the person that matters most. I’m through with it. If you’ll have me, after all of this, then I’m yours." John waited, barely daring to breathe. Had he waited too long? God, he probably had. If Sherlock turned on him and punched him, he would take it. He deserved it, after all.

Sherlock felt a bitterness deep inside that he’d been fighting for so very long. "So, what, you expect me to be your bit on the side?"

"No," John said gently. "Mary and I are getting a divorce."

Abruptly, the detective’s knees gave way and he collapsed in a heap on the floor. He was crying, tears running freely down his cheeks.

John knelt and took him in his arms. "I’m sorry it took me so long. I’m so, so sorry."


	28. Chapter 28

Sherlock didn't precisely _let_ himself be held. He had broken down too far to summon the mental faculty for that. He simply lay there as John clutched him and rocked him, speaking words of comfort and love to him as he sobbed.

The events of the last three years had been leading directly to this. From the moment Sherlock had realised he would have to throw his reputation away as well as his life as he knew it to save John, his breakdown had been inevitable. His time away had been miserable. The time since his return had been marginally less so at times, worse at others. Add to that the mental stress of withdrawal from both cocaine and John and it was a miracle it hadn't happened before now.

The doctor held him through it until Sherlock's gasping sobs slowed and finally quieted. Several long minutes later, the detective struggled to sit up. John helped him, smoothing back his sweat soaked curls. "Alright. You're going to be alright." He felt selfish asking, but he had to know what Sherlock wanted, so he pressed ahead. "Do you want me to go?"

The detective shook his head. "Not if you meant what you said."

"I've never meant anything more in my life."

Sherlock nodded. He felt completely wrung out, but he desperately wanted John to stay. The detective groped for the right words. "I'm still not okay, John. You know that."

"Yeah. And I still have to figure out things with Mary. Not about the marriage," the doctor hastened to clarify. "About Ailis and how the divorce will proceed. I've chosen you, don't ever doubt it. Never again."

They were silent for a bit, then Sherlock asked, "Now what?"

"Mary is willing for me to stay with her at the house or to move back to Baker Street immediately. So it's up to you. I know it's going to take you more time to get through the psychological withdrawal you're experiencing. Will it be better for you to do it here or at home?"

It was so very tempting to say he could do it at home. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to be at Baker Street with John and have this all behind him. He closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing for a few minutes. When he opened them again, the detective said what needed to be said, not what was begging to be let out. "I need to stay here a bit longer and there are things that need to be done. I'm certain Lestrade found some of my stash, but... I'll make a list. You can take care of... things... If you're willing."

John swallowed hard, then nodded. "Right. Thank you." His leg started cramping. "Can we move to the sofa?"

At Sherlock's nod, the doctor helped him to his feet. They sat together on the sofa in silence for some time, the detective leaning against John's side.

"John," Sherlock said, his voice small, "I know you need to see to things with Mary and Ailis..."

After several moments of silence, John coaxed him to continue, "Yes?"

"I'm so tired of him, John. While you weren't here... The things he says in my head... Please, will you stay with me a few hours so he'll stay away?" Sherlock looked at the doctor hopefully. "I need to rest and I can't with him here."

"Of course. I'll stay as long as you need," John promised.

After that, they grew quiet again. Sherlock's sheer exhaustion outweighed his brain's restless need for stimulation and he soon fell asleep, resting against the doctor's side.

The most difficult decisions to make came with the greatest risks, but they also offered the greatest reward. Things were far from alright, but John hadn't been rejected. He had been given a chance to make things right with Sherlock. A chance he intended to take full advantage of.

The detective, for his part, had made his own tough choices. John was so very gratified and relieved by that. Sherlock hadn't chosen what surely seemed to him to be the easy way out. Instead, he had admitted that Greg's place was where he needed to be and he had volunteered information about his hidden stash of drugs.

John was under no illusions. The future would be full of challenges, but together, they had a chance of making it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end. I only promised a hopeful ending after all. Considering it started off as a one shot, I'm pleased with where it ended up. I hope you enjoyed it.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I loved the special, but my heart broke a little bit more for Sherlock. He deserves so much more.
> 
> If you want to podfic or translate this or create a drawing based on it, go for it. Just please let me know and link back to my fic.
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr](http://shippingintothenight.tumblr.com).


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